


Atlas

by Tasia (ruikosakuragi)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Angst and Romance, Drama, Espionage, F/M, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Parental Riza Hawkeye, Parental Roy Mustang, Post-World War II, Romance, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents, Suspense, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-08-20 03:30:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 83,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16548011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruikosakuragi/pseuds/Tasia
Summary: Historical/Espionage AU. After six years apart, intelligence agent Roy Mustang attempts to rebuild his relationship with a former partner. But when past and present intertwine, their reunion triggers one of life's most difficult decisions: duty or family. Royai. Parental!Riza/Parental!Roy.





	1. this life that they gave us

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A shout out to **A Passing Housewife (flourchildwrites)** for the name suggestion! I love the name Elio, and it has the perfect meaning for this fic. Also a shout out to **LadyAureliana** for being an awesome soundboard and **hell-whim** for the feedback on the first chapter. I'm planning on posting one chapter every 1-1.5 weeks for this fic. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> P.S. Chapter titles from Tessa Rae - Dreamland

**Los Angeles, July 8, 1948**

When the Eastern Columbia Building clock strikes five in the morning, the measured clack of polished oxford shoes fades on the concrete storefront of Bluebird Diner along with it. The rattling sound of keys in her hand and the same idle noise of city and early risers intermingle like another ordinary day. Occasionally, she will hear the sputtering of engine and a loud honk that quickly follows before immersing herself in business as usual.

Just like yesterday and the days before, diner owner Riza Hawkeye bids a religious "good morning" and "how are you" to the pleasant husband-and-wife team who runs a butcher shop next door. Like parrots, they echo the same greetings. As always, their neighborly exchange ends with Riza's predetermined response: "Good".

Riza tilts her head to the left with purpose and waits for the nice gentleman. He passes by her sidewalk every morning at precisely 5AM with a scent of cheap cologne, circular glasses and handlebar mustache in tow. Like clockwork, the old loafer whose name she never learned tips his hat to her. She reciprocates with a cordial smile. The man has never eaten at her restaurant but always stops by the butcher shop to scan the prices before leaving empty handed - his antics remind her of someone's overly prying grandfather.

As dull as everything may seem, Riza appreciates these predictable patterns; they disguise themselves as momentary bliss, a necessary reprieve from a fragment of past life that seems to cling to her rather parasitically. But with a tuck of golden strands behind one ear, Riza's old self returns in the form of a two-second pause right before she enters the turquoise-laden restaurant on the intersection of South Broadway and Eleventh Street.

Within those two seconds, her ears instinctively attune to the shrill announcements of the newspaper boy from the makeshift stall several feet west:

" _Capital gloomy over Cold War!"_ the boy declares,  _"Come and get your newspaper here! Berlin Blockade tension mounts! Read the latest news!"_

Her one foot is already on linoleum tile, the other only halfway through. But by the time the diner glass door clicks into its metal grooves, her brain would have already finished sifting through the day's breaking news. Riza really only listens for the name of one certain person, however, or the company in which he is a part of. Not hearing the name "Roy Mustang" ring on the streets will begin her day with the proper tug at the corners of her mouth.

Between the empty quietness of the restaurant, she swiftly finds her business mindset. While inspecting the U-shape bar for misplaced eatingwares, the meticulous woman plucks her brown hair clip from the depth of her checkered uniform - a habit she adopts soon after meeting Roy. Then, she'd fold her long tresses into a neat bun to accompany her rolled bangs above naturally flushed cheeks.

When Riza finds the setup atop laminated countertop to be satisfactory, she moves onto the next task in a systematic manner. She spies the tiled floors for scraps of food and dirt and grease. Six out of seven days now the place is immaculate to her standards. It is not an unrealistic goal, Riza decides. But when the image of her playful five year-old springs into mind, what seems to be an easy task often becomes the day's most difficult challenge, often necessitating help from her friendly butcher neighbor.

Her name is Izumi, the friendly butcher lady next door. But her husband has reminded her many times to introduce herself as Mrs Curtis. Riza determines that the American-friendly surname is her shield from the consequences of the war, providing sufficient cover against clear remnants of anti-Japanese sentiment.

Izumi sometimes makes small talk, ranging from the frivolity of family life to the blood-boiling conversations of customer complaints. And just like that, Riza feigns interest like the well-trained actress that she was. But Riza can spare some trust for the woman, she thinks. After all, everything from the woman's braided ponytail to her geta sandals seem benign enough - a headstrong albeit typical housewife with no planned agenda further than this year's Christmas. This does not mean, however, that Riza is prepared to divulge more information than simply her first name and how she takes her tea, her current occupation and where she came from (it requires too much effort on her end to conceal her British accent).

"Good morning, Miss Riza!"

Riza's caffeinated mind jolts at the unexpected greeting. Paranoia needs to pin a name to the voice, forcing her body to face the long blonde female. Winry Rockbell's early arrival surprises her, stunning her in place as though she has been caught red-handed with a bundle of cash in hand. Alas, several years of retirement from an action-packed life hasn't done much in alleviating an ounce of excessive prudence. Luckily, Riza no longer employs a thigh holster like she had been throughout her month-long assignment in Berlin. If that were the case, her automatic reaction would be to reach for the concealed metal object. But when her darting eyes spot her son holding Winry's hand, a flicker of pride and joy softens her suspecting gaze.

The boy's black hair is unruly as always, unable to be tamed even with the help of water and gel. His hazel eyes mirror his mother's, bright with creativity, gleaming with curiosity. His baby fat is not yet outgrown, blanketing his cheeks and hands and legs. Yawning his drowsiness out loud, he obediently hovers a hand over his mouth just like how his mother taught him. The boy looks as a child should be: innocent and happy with the occasional mischief displayed on his silly grins.

With his small feet, the pitter patter of bouncy steps reverberates in the room when he runs towards his mother. Spirit fingers dance in the air as he stumbles into her arms. He screams excitement into her half-length apron with childlike temperament, "Moooom!"

The outline of Riza's shoulders sinks in relaxation. A delightful smile blooms on her face, reaching the glint in her eyes. Instinctively, the young mother brushes her son's messy locks with her fingers, like she had often done to the boy's father. When her son nuzzles his head on her stomach, Riza looks up at the observing young woman with gratitude. "Thanks for bringing him here, Winry. I didn't think he would wake up so early."

"Thank you for letting me stay the night, Miss Riza. I was just getting ready to leave your apartment when he snuck into the guest bedroom. I left the spare key with your landlady and informed her she doesn't need to watch Elio today."

"Oh, he snuck into your room, did he?" Riza's brows furrow in disapproval. Bending her knees so she is eye-level with the child, the stern mother stares into her son's sleepy eyes. She chastises, "Elio, what did I say about going into someone else's room without permission?"

With a pouty mouth, the little boy's eyes mist with guilt. Riza detects the reddening of his cheeks against fair skin when he frowns, the color resembling a ripe tomato. If there is an appearance that can crush her life in a single heartbeat, it would be her son's very expression. Discipline breeds respectful behavior, however, just like what her wise superior officer had often said. So no matter how badly she prefers to see a smile on his face, the mother steels her heavy heart and dons her serious mask once again. "What do you say to Miss Winry?"

Taking a sidelong glance at Miss Winry, Elio turns to face his mother and stares at anywhere but her scolding eyes. The boy mutters quietly, "Sorry, Miss Winry…"

"Don't look at mummy, Elio. Look at Miss Winry when you say it."

His second attempt is much more sincere. Lumbering towards Miss Winry with a sheepish demeanor, he gingerly takes the woman's gentle hand, gazing into her bright blue eyes, "I'm sorry, Miss Winry."

Patting the boy's head, Winry replies with a fond smile, "Ahh, you're such a sweetie, Elio. It is no trouble at all. All is forgiven."

He runs behind his mother with a toothy grin, concealing his shy expression on her ankle-length skirt, hiding from Winry's lighthearted laugh.

"That's it, Elio. That wasn't so hard, was it? Now, do you think you can keep busy for thirty minutes while mummy works?"

While still clutching onto her bottom half, Elio looks up at her endearingly. "Can I-can I help you with work, mommy?"

Riza smooths his hair with her hand, shaking her head mildly. "Not today, Elio. Maybe another time. Can you play by yourself for a little bit? I promise I will join you soon."

"Okay!" And with that, he is off to meddle with the jukebox.

Riza falls into her routine in as quickly as the blink of an eye. It is uncharacteristic of her to waste a precious minute, because she understands how crucial the fleeting amount of time can be. As she had experienced herself, one brief minute had bought her a chance to escape, one extra second had allowed her some breathing room to take the perfect shot. So when the clock hands reach thirty minutes past five, Riza wastes no time before beginning the next item on her agenda.

Little by little, Bluebird Diner springs into life. The cooks have arrived fifteen minutes prior. The rest of her staff trickles in one by one within the span of a half hour. When all of the fluorescent lights are finally flicked on, the shop brightens to the public like a Christmas tree. When the neon 'open' sign is switched on at exactly 6:30AM, her regulars, the brothers Edward and Alphonse, will step foot in the door. Retired soldier Edward is Winry's husband and the one responsible for referring the wonderful woman to Riza. As difficult as Riza is to please, Winry's work has exceeded beyond her hopes.

It is now thirty minutes until the start of business hour.

Taking a brief respite from the task at hand, Riza studies her son's flurry behavior like a hawk. The floor tiles he uses as a hopscotch court has yet ceased to entertain him, much to her relief. Jotting a mental note, she reminds herself to keep a book or two on the counter shelf for him to read. The Little Prince kept him plenty occupied last time, so a book of similar length will be sought after. In addition, a pocketful of crayons and a stack of paper should suffice should he get bored, although unlikely. Much like his father, the boy normally prefers to lose himself in between lines of black texts.

Even in his father's absence, the child fully takes after him. The light tint of his irises aside, they are two peas in a pod right down to the habitual quirks. The boy sings in the bathroom for god's sake, off-key shrieks and all bouncing off the walls, distorting her hearing like how his old man's had. But Riza appreciates the laughter that comes with it.

Similar to his father, the boy holds the chopsticks properly. It is a feat in of itself considering his age. How he has managed to perfect the skill is beyond her, especially because her attempts have always been nothing but clumsy.

These insignificant moments often lead to memories of the man. Is he still as handsome as she remembers? Does he still snap his fingers as a prayer of good luck before the start of each mission? If she were to ask him the same questions she had asked years ago, would he still reply with the same answers? Does he want to see her? Will she ever see him again?

The bell above the entrance jingles at the door swing, but the store is not yet open to the public.

Riza readies an apology at the tip of her tongue as she twists her body to face the eager patron. And yet, what meets her apologetic expression is unexpected familiarity.

The answer to her contemplation appears like a sandstorm, catching her entirely off guard, drowning her in a petulant cough when her throat dries as a result. Within time, a brimful of emotions rams into her like a truck, driving her to the brink of a heart attack.

Riza wants to say something, but her voice has been stolen from her. She then attempts to mouth something, but her face stiffens like a sculpture. The young mother wants to ease her ragged breathing, but the oxygen has been sucked out of her lungs. All she can do in her frozen state is compare the man in her memory to the one standing before her.

With a perusing gaze, Riza determines that time has carved additional stress lines around his features. But everything else from memory is intact. His posture is still as excellent as ever, flaunting a man taller than his average stature. He doesn't look particularly American in the typical sense of the word, with almond-shaped eyes and muted golden complexion rivaling a bush of wheat. From head to toe, he is decorated with the same kind expression, the same well-muscled build, and the same trim appearance with the same tousled raven hair.

As Riza stands rigid like a wooden plank, her son tugs her index finger, injecting control back into her limbs. Elio tilts his head at her inaction, innocently inquiring, "Mommy, are you okay?"

Once she repossesses her body, her voice returns. Riza clears her throat as she answers, "I-I'm fine, Elio."

Riza can't help but observe her surroundings, hoping to see anything but scrutinizing stares. Winry doesn't seem to notice as she busies herself with diner duties. The cooks and the rest of her staff seem to be in their own world, too, paying no heed to the strange atmosphere among the three. Riza was relieved momentarily.

The man removes his navy blue fedora hat, which matches the wistful expression he wears. A small smile curls on his face, and he chimes in with the same deep rich timbre that never fails to melt her resolve, "Elio, huh?"

"Mommy, who is that?" her son asks, oblivious of the gravity of his question.

Never in a million years would Riza think to reunite with him in this place - a place quite unbefitting for a former secret agent like herself. Nevertheless, he must have done his homework to be able to find her here. Gathering herself once again, Riza musters a composed demeanor. As calmly as she can manage, she summons an unwavering voice above churning stomach, "Elio, this is Roy Mustang. He is your father."


	2. a place that's out of this world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello! Hope you enjoy chapter 2! :)

**London, October 3, 1942**

His eyes. There is something giddy about the glint in his green irises - pure excitement behind the rectangular glasses nestling atop the bridge of his nose. For someone who works among operatives, the man seems to carry not an ounce of prudence. He introduces himself as Maes Hughes, and whether or not that is his real name, Roy could care less. Maes oozes intelligence from the questions he poses. But he also parades recklessness from the buoyant expression he wears, portraying the kind of man who gets killed first in their line of work. Maes, however, is a trusted associate in this part of town - the man's reliability vouched by Roy's own briefing officer via the official summon he received.

As Roy studies him, he can see the man's elaborate plan to appear the part of an unassuming taxi driver. His flat cap covers a wild case of spiky black hair, and he wears a modest woolen coat that matches the earthy brown autumn weather with a worn out knapsack slung across his torso. His current assignment is to take Roy from point A to point B, so Maes represses his officer persona and sports a believable Cockney dialect the moment they exit the fenced gate and into the streets of London. Nevertheless, Maes maintains an assertive gait and employs a grin a little too wide to blend in with the few dreary cabmen hanging about.

While lugging Roy's leather suitcase into the back of the cab, Maes' sophisticated accent resurfaces, "There aren't too many young taxi drivers anymore. Most of them have been sent to serve in the war. As you can see, these men are older and don't know the London topography all too well. So instead of having you meet us at the agreed upon location, I received approval to take you directly to your hotel."

"There aren't many cabmen around here at all," Roy notes.

"Petrol's been rationed," Maes explains plainly. "Go ahead and get in the car first, it's cold. I'll just be a moment."

Roy breathes in his surroundings. Traces of history linger in every corner of the old city, even with the newly erected aerodrome. He found these characteristics charming the last time he was here, before the war began. This time, however, everything seems gloomier than he remembers. The rousing light of dawn bleeds a glaring orange rather than the pink-rose hue he was so fond of. The street is barren and lifeless with no pedestrian, only the exhausted shuffling of the one-two cabmen. There are puddles of rainwater everywhere, painting a constellation of black holes on the grey, wet asphalt. Fog settles in, unwilling to leave, depriving him of a healthy vision of what's beyond the horizon.

With that, Roy pulls the latch of the cab door, seeking warmth in the confinement, wordlessly. The cool leather of the back seat seeps past his black peacoat and into his skin. But the inside of the car remains a degree more agreeable than the unforgiving temperature outside. Once Maes joins him at the wheel, Roy expects the man to rush out of the bleak airfield and into their destination at the speed of light. When the man merely sits idle, Roy's gloveless fingers tap the brim of his hat sitting across his lap. He inquires in a curious tone, "Are we waiting for something?"

Rubbing his leather gloves around the steering wheel, Maes says reassuringly, "Give it another minute or two."

As if on cue, the cab door opens. The chilling wind slams into Roy like a hard punch on the face. A young woman dressed in tailored herringbone coat enters, her bare ankles bracing the cold weather like a fighter. A cream-colored beret perches fashionably atop a pile of neatly rolled flaxen hair, framing a naturally pretty face. Her powder-free skin is fair and flawless, a refreshing sight from the women he often encounters at his aunt's bar in San Francisco. She looks a few years younger than himself, but the elegance she exudes unveil maturity beyond her age.

Unlike her lithe frame, her cadence is sharp and strong when she speaks, each word uttered providing a hint of her stringent personality, "Sorry I'm late. I've no excuse for my tardiness this morning."

"Come on, you're too harsh on yourself. It's only forty five seconds later than the promised time. It hasn't even been a full minute," Maes replies with a frivolous lilt as he sets the car in motion.

"That's forty five seconds lost, Hughes. Enough time for targets to leave the scope view." Solemnly, she turns to face Roy. She removes one glove in reflex, extending a naked hand. Her British accent (which has a slight twang to it and differs from Maes') is only now noticeable to his ears behind all the harsh words, "Riza Hawkeye. Pleasure to meet you, Mister...?"

The rest of his features is full of intrigue. Taking her hand, Roy answers with an earnest smile, "Roy. Roy Mustang. The pleasure's mine as well, Miss Hawkeye."

Her lips return a small, hollow smile as she lets go of his hand. "Riza, please. Hawkeye is my father's name."

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind Roy recognizes her family name as she speaks it the second time. Furrowing his brows, Roy asks with curiosity, "Hawkeye... Where have I heard that name before?"

Putting the suede glove back on, she replies nonchalantly, "It isn't common knowledge, but considering your field of study, you must have remembered an article written about a mad scientist blowing up his own house and killing his wife. Berthold Hawkeye is his name, and I'm his daughter."

The outline of Roy's shoulders tenses from remorse. His mouth curves sympathetically when he responds, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude."

Smiling impassively, Riza chooses to end the conversation with a sardonic disposition, "That's alright. It was all in the past. My father is paying for his sins by enjoying the first-class mental institution that's costing me an arm and a leg."

At a loss for words, Roy simply hums in acknowledgement.

When reticence hangs in between, both choose to settle in their seats. Nevertheless, Roy can feel her sly observation of him through the occasional sidelong glances. She isn't the only one keen on learning about their partner, however. Roy is just as desperate as she is, if not even more so.

He notes grace in her demeanor - from the smooth motion in which she rests the purse on her lap to the way her chin props with pride. Her feet are anchored firmly to the ground without being overbearing. Riza stares ahead with confidence, as if every single item on her agenda will simply fall into place. Most importantly, she wears her poker face like a badge of honor; if she had felt a tinge of sadness from the brief recollection, Roy honestly couldn't tell.

Riza catches him in the act, inquiring into the watchful silence, "You've been briefed about me, yes?"

With a slight reluctance, Roy meets her scrutinizing stare before answering, "I'm aware that I will be working with you for the duration of the assignment. Unfortunately, my superior officer has only provided me with a half-assed file on you. It says you will play the role of my wife."

Lifting her left hand in front of her face, Riza points to her ringless finger. She rectifies, "Not quite a wife. Just an associate. A  _close_  associate."

Unintentionally, a hint of disappointment trickles out of Roy's voice, "Oh, is that so? That's rather unfortunate."

She merely smiles, the crescent moon on her face not fully reaching her gaze.

His stomach twists below racing heart. Silently, he prays she would take his words with a grain of salt. Sensing the urge to clear the discomfort, Roy quickly interrupts, "So Riza, how long have you been in the field?"

Fatigue crosses her features for a split second, but she responds without hesitation, "Seven years in the field. I was recruited halfway through finishing my degree. And before I forget-" Her hand rummages inside her small purse, producing a thin, red booklet. Handing it over to him, she says, "Here is your  _passeport de la république française_ , complete with your new name."

"Thanks," Roy mutters, taking the travel document from her hand. "You've been working for seven years? You don't look a day over twenty five."

With a mirthless laugh, Riza corrects him, "I'm twenty six actually, but I will take that as a compliment." She adds, "I waited until I graduated the following year before becoming a full-fledged agent. I joined SOE just this year. What about you? I don't recall reading much intelligence gathering under your experience."

"Well, I've four months for intelligence gathering with the OSS, but roughly eight years on an unofficial capacity. I was a chemistry professor at Berkeley, specializing in nuclear power, which you probably know about. The Bureau had approached me a few times in the past for similar jobs, but more often than not it was the military," says Roy. Pausing for a moment, he examines his new profile on the French passport. A flustered expression floods him. Bluntly, he questions with incredulity, "Roy Hayakawa? That's my new name? I read some articles on anti-Japanese sentiment in London. While it isn't as terrible as they have it in America, need I remind you that I don't speak a lick of Japanese? I'm actually of Chinese descent from my mother's side."

Riza elicits a lighthearted laugh, the first sincere sound she emits since meeting him. Employing an amused expression, she explains, "You're Roy Hayakawa and I'm Teresa Hammersmark - Riza for short. I'm playing a German and I'm not one." Seeing an unwavering stare, she yields a persuasive answer, "Alright look, I don't mean to discriminate, but most people can barely distinguish the difference. To them, you can be Chinese or Japanese. In this case, it is important that you take on the role of a Japanese scientist because the Germans in attendance will be more willing to trust their ally."

Half-heartedly, Roy acquiesces, "Fine, you're right. But if we parade around town with our new names, I'm not sure we'll be in one piece to complete the mission."

Riza lingers a teasing gaze, judging him, and affirms with a chuckle, "If you get a  _Heimatschuß_ , I'll make sure to inform your mother."

"What?" The lines on Roy's forehead wrinkle in confusion.

Crossing one leg over the other, her arms follow suit in a tangle. Her gaze is affixed to the window as if she has had enough of his grievance to last the day. "It means 'blighty wound'. If you ever get shot, I'll send you home to your mother."

But Riza's mockery eludes him. Instead, Roy lingers an astonished look about him, surmising, "You know, you've been throwing all these foreign words at me today. Were you a Linguistics major at Oxford? Balliol college? I know they earned a distinction in that field."

Riza curls a disarming smile, pausing, before replying with an uncharacteristically amicable tone, "Oh, so you know that I studied at Oxford? I was a Classics and English major at Christ Church college, but yours is not a far off guess. I suppose I have a knack for foreign languages, so I ended up learning a few along the way."

Turning his body towards her with fascination, Roy chuckles, "What's a few?"

She angles herself towards him, leaning against the hard perpendicular line where metal meets leather. Holding his inquisitive eyes, she states, "French, German, Spanish. A little bit of Italian and Polish. I'm learning Japanese and Chinese. They're a work in progress."

Roy's eyes flash with admiration. Inadvertently, his voice is coated with flattery, betraying his own resolve to appear genuine in front of her, "That's very impressive. I would have recruited you as well if I were them. Say, what other impressive skills do you have? You seem like a good cook. I always admire beautiful women who can cook a hearty meal."

Riza scoffs with incredulity, a touch offended, "You do realize my life is in your hands as much as yours is in mine. Why would you care if I'm a good cook?" Taking out a cigarette case from her purse, she plucks one out and tilts her head forward so Roy can light the butt.

While flicking the lighter, he answers, "I've always enjoyed domesticity when I can help it."

When she offers him a smoke, Roy declines with regret, "No, thank you. I'm two years smoke-free."

She makes two puffs, perfectly circular rings, with one arm folded below her chest and the other propping up the tobacco in her hand. Brusquely, Riza responds with a sarcastic tone, "Then why do you carry a lighter around? Are you in cahoots with your lighter to impress women? I will tell you now cheap tricks like that won't work on me."

Roy blames his increasing irritation on the lack of rest and coffee. Shrugging off a ridicule (especially one from a beautiful woman) should be effortless. But when he couldn't stifle the jab to his pride, Roy scoffs smugly, retorting, "Oh, that's ridiculous! In America, it's the gentlemanly thing to do. I know you Brits don't care much about being a gentleman. You're all born a walking and talking aristocrat in this  _great_  country!"

Her thin eyebrows twitch in displeasure. But in a cool manner and with one too many triumphant smirk, she counters smoothly, "You're right. We're all aristocrats led by our great Queen, who, I remind you, is capable of walking without help,  _unlike_  your President."

Feeling an imminent quarrel at bay, Maes clears his throat obnoxiously. Both agents flinch from their seats, swiftly directing their attention to the driver. There is vexation in Maes' inflection, but he musters the strength to keep a collected demeanor, "I see you two have already started getting to know one another. Can I advise you that civility is of utmost importance? Keep in mind you will be sharing the same space in the next few months."

Roy confesses that he has forgotten all about Maes. The path to their destination has been surprisingly smooth and even, without a bump in the road or many twists and turns along the way. Besides, the woman next to him has kept him plenty occupied. Either that, or Maes is extremely gifted with his driving skills.

Taking a furtive glance at Riza, Roy recognizes that the anger about her face has been replaced with embarrassment, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of red wine. The word "control" is written in big bold letters in the bible of every intelligence officer; it is religiously practiced before the start of each mission. With Riza, Roy realizes that controlling his emotions is a daunting task. One minute, she is the most charming woman on the planet. Another minute, she becomes the trickiest woman to read. Peculiarly, he finds her aggressive tendencies and witty remarks to be strangely attractive. Contemplatively, he wonders if she shares the same sentiment.

When Maes finally pulls over at a dingy intersection, a trace of uneasiness replaces the irritation about him. The street on which he parks is narrow and dark and quiet, contracting the hard muscles in Roy's limbs into flight or fight stimulus. Surrounding them are rows of red-bricked buildings seven to eight stories high, looming over them in a derisive mock. A construction effort is underway on the other side of the curb, with walls of scaffolding crowing an eerie atmosphere. As Roy begins each mission, his body always reacts the same, spreading nervous tension like a virus.

Maes whispers into the taut silence with a grave tone, his back leaning like a board against the leather cushion, "Operation Grouse will take place at Vemork in Norway with a focus on destroying German heavy water." Raising a gold sealed envelope and a manila folder in hand, Maes resumes, "A couple other operations in concert are being led in different parts of the country as we speak.  _This_  is one of them."

Both agents stare at his back with suspense, each preparing mentally for what lies ahead.

"You have a few days to live and breathe your new identities." Handing the two items towards the back of the car allows Riza to pluck them from Maes' hand. From the driver's seat, Maes continues, eyes fixated forward, "Everything in the folder will explain the details of Operation Atlas. Make sure you read  _every single word_  carefully."

Roy fidgets in his seat, gulping, his throat thick with agitation. "Understood."

Hearing Roy's restless shuffle from behind, Maes looks back with assurance. "You two will be fine. Riza here is our best sharpshooter." Pointing to a dimly lit Victorian architecture to his right, he adds, "St. Ermin's is where you two will be staying for the duration. It's booked under your new name, Roy."

Blatantly, Roy gauges Riza's reaction. He sees a blank canvas. She seems to take Maes' instruction with ease, fear barely lining her features. The cigarette in between her fingers is sitting pretty. Her perusing gaze calmly scans over the documents, the attention to detail displayed in her focused rich, brown eyes. She occasionally bites her bottom lip as she reads on but remains composed throughout. Like a spell, the tension in his limbs slackens the longer he observes her.

Once Riza finishes processing the information on hand, a clever smirk curls on her lips. Seven years of experience has molded her into a veteran agent, including playing the part of a convincing close associate. Without warning, Riza inches towards Roy, languid and persistent, ripe with an alluring smile. When their faces reach a scant distance, she stubs her cigarette on the fogged glass window behind him, tossing the butt in between the sliver. She dawdles a captivating gaze, immobilizing him.

The stretch of time feels eternal to Roy. He can only hear the pounding in his chest and worship the wonderful floral scent on her neck. Momentarily, Riza blankets a gloved hand over his with feigned affection. Her hot breath hits the right side of his cheek, raising the hairs on his arms. Then, in a playful and fleeting timbre that is polarizing to her own, Teresa Hammersmark's faultless German accent commences Operation Atlas, "Mr Hayakawa, shall we check into our hotel?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*SOE: Special Operations Executive (British WWII organization specializing in espionage)_   
>  _**OSS: Office of Strategic Services (American WWII intelligence agency)_


	3. all the quiet people living quiet lives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It's Thanksgiving week! Happy Thanksgiving to those celebrating! I hope you enjoy this chapter :).

**Los Angeles, July 8, 1948**

The short walk from Bluebird Diner to Riza's apartment has been in complete silence. It isn't uncomfortable, and yet it is only as companionable as six years of letterless separation will allow. But their feelings for each other are not relics of the past, leaving traces in the breeze, lingering between two bodies. Beside them, their arms hang, stubborn as a mule, pushing away with each unintentional stroke but pulling back in for more. There's an ebb and flow of shyness, a healthy smattering of sheepish smiles in lieu of speech. They act like a couple of lovelorn teenagers, with roundabout steps spilling down the sidewalk. It is only after Elio sandwiches himself in between the two, taking each of their clammy hands, that their eyes finally meet.

The boy swings their arms, high to the sky, low to the ground, like a pendulum. He sinks unrestrained laughter and giggles into their ears. But the image of a happy family strolling down the street is merely an illusion, a luxury of dream. But who can blame the kid? Elio has only interpreted his mother's statement for what it is - that Roy is his father. And as his father's son, Elio simply thinks he is entitled to all of the child-to-father gestures he can think of. Similar to the other children he observes on their walk, Elio has done with Roy what any of those kids have done with their father, holding their father's hand tightly, not letting go.

As much as Riza adores seeing the beam on her son's face, listening to his creative storytelling of a day at the park to the father he has just met, she can't help but feel vexed. Same as before, Riza's priorities lie with Elio. But what about Roy's? Is he here to finally claim fatherhood? But Riza merely has conjectures among a sea of conjectures. But given enough time and courage, she hopes to pry the proper answers from the man. And Riza will require more than willingness from him, or needless financial donations, because she believes fatherhood should be earned; it is not inscribed in blood.

All thoughts of Elio aside, Riza has prepared herself for this fated day. The time has arrived for her to come clean, and it must be done before she can strip Roy for answers. With much of their history carved between the streets of London and Paris, Riza realizes how the decision to reside in the unfamiliar city of Los Angeles may look. How long did it take him to find them, she wonders. What means did he use?

They arrive at a gated complex, a three-story apartment building, and they enter.

Roy sets his suitcase down on the foyer and scans the room.

In his dreams, he sees stark walls, sparse, pristine chamber with hard-edged interiors resembling the sharp and concise person that she is. In reality, warm wood shades and splashes of lively colors stain the space like a springtime garden. Instead of grass, it is shag, forest green carpet. Instead of rose bushes, it is muted pink, floral wallpaper. Furniture surfaces are wiped clean, free of dust, but personal effects loiter around the room, cozying up themselves in their misplaced spots. Elio's adorable drawings of a cat-dog and crayon-colored people come alive on the wall, the papers curled, edges withering from time basking under the sunlight.

As Roy crosses over the living room, the smell of lavender trails - Riza's distinct scent that is now forever mixed with a hint of baby powder.

Riza emerges from the kitchen with two cups of coffee in hand. She places one steaming cup in front of him and another in front of an empty dining chair. The fragrance is sweet and strong, like toasted nuts laced with brown sugar - the proper smell for a wake up call.

At the tap of porcelain cups against wood, Riza glances at her son. Seeing Elio's face light up like a firecracker washes her with relief. The two-tone wooden radio is keeping her son plenty busy. At least, until the children's program  _The Adventure of Sea Hound_  ceases to be broadcasted. This procures her approximately fifteen minutes of undisturbed conversation, and promptly, Riza occupies the vacancy across from Roy.

Similar to hers, Roy's expression is full of questions. But Riza undoubtedly fares no better. Her hesitation is rippling her lips, teeth constantly nipping the inside wall. Agitation creates a bobbing lump in her throat, and she struggles to swallow. Her mind constantly wonders, how to begin? Where to begin? Her mouth opens, then closes. And she does this several times, hanging unsaid words in the air.

When Riza finally finds the courage to speak, Roy soon discovers his voice. Just like their time in the field, they move congruently and think in parallel. "How are you?" as they simultaneously ask. "Sorry, you go first!" as they immediately stammer. They chuckle lightly all at once, capturing the long-awaited amiability.

Behind the thirst for answers, Roy is, first and foremost, nervous about their reunion. The seams of his lips are stitched tightly together, forcing him to coddle his words. The outline of his shoulders is stiff and unmoving he can certainly pass as a marble sculpture in a museum. Absentmindedly, his eyes trace Riza's finger as it runs warm circles along the rim of her coffee cup.

Incessantly, his heels tap the floor, shedding nervousness onto the ground. Bracing both hands around the coffee cup, Roy asks, wistful and sincere, "How are you, Riza?"

"I'm fine, Roy," Riza meekly answers. "And you?"

Roy replies, more diffident than intended, "I'm doing alright. It's… It really is good to see you." He loops his index finger on the handle, twirling the cup against its saucer. The dragging sound of porcelain softly whispers. Sneaking a quick glimpse of his son, Roy faces Riza with a curious gaze, "So... his name is Elio?"

Silently and breathlessly, Riza nods. The red on her complexion deepens as a sweet strawberry, accentuating the color of the wallpaper behind her. A knowing smile blooms on his face - as handsome as Riza remembers, and he seems accompanied by an aura of gladness.

Roy pauses to consider, as if soaking everything in, then says, "That's wonderful to hear."

Nodding in agreement, she tugs a nostalgic smile then stares downward to hide her burning cheeks.

Feeling a flutter in his stomach, Roy inquires, fidgeting slightly in his seat, "Do you-Do you have to be back at the diner?"

Riza replies, a little too quickly, "I do."

Disappointment stretches his features at a moment's notice, darkening his downcast gaze. The cup in his hand rattles accidentally. When Riza catches this, her brows slope at the realization. She remedies swiftly with a stammer, "B-but I have a moment to spare."

"Oh good, good. I just want to make sure I'm not keeping you away from your work..."

Silence for a brief second, with solely the hum of the radio shrouding the awkward atmosphere.

The cave of Roy's mouth widens, forming a letter, soundlessly. Projecting his questions proves to be difficult, especially ones involving the son he has barely met. Roy takes a deep breath and exhales, once, twice, until at last, he is able to produce a thin, raspy voice, "What's he like...? Elio, I mean."

"Well…" she mutters, hesitating, collecting her thoughts. Her soft, tender eyes fall on her son, outlining his engrossed form. Elio's fingers clasp the side of the coffee table, knuckles white, chin resting above it, mouth a gaping hole. Her son is tuning to the radio program with suspense, absorbed in nothing else. Riza chuckles fondly and says, "I'm not sure where to start. He's a bundle of joy - so happy all the time."

Roy's scattered bangs can't hide the enthusiasm in his eyes. The half moon across his lips flaunts his teeth, white and perfect. He shuffles in his seat from eagerness, inching his body closer until the dull edge of the table dents his chest. Like a child in a candy store his face glows, de-aging him a few years, taking him back to those nights six years ago. Impatiently, Roy inquires, "Okay, okay. Tell me more. What's his favorite food?"

At this, Riza mirrors his enthusiasm. The chair in which she sits grinds against the floor at her insistence, removing the distance between the two. As she leans forward, the soft line of golden light cutting through the window reflects on her cheek, highlighting delight and warmth on her features. Without missing a beat, she answers, a smile rolling on her lips, "He has a terrible sweet tooth, I'm afraid. His meal consists mainly of cornmeal pudding and apple pies."

"But you can't be feeding him only sweets?"

Riza pushes her coffee aside, a mere distraction amid a tethering conversation. She dawdles her fingers over the brown stain ring marked by her cup, the incredulity on her face is sprinkled with amusement, "Of course not. Last week I took him to Bob's Pantry and we had hamburgers. He absolutely  _loved_  it. That is now his favorite food." Leaning back in her seat, she elicits a small laugh, "It will change again this weekend when I take him elsewhere."

Roy grins, fan-shaped creases etching the side of his eyes. He doesn't blink and instead holds his stare, wide and large, inquiring, "What else does he like? I'd love to know more."

"He loves the meatloaf from Clifton's."

Roy's forehead scrunches in curiosity. "Clifton's?"

"You've never been?"

"No, I'm not familiar with Los Angeles."

Her index finger is taut and long as she points towards the direction of the mountain, visible beyond the translucent window. "On Sundays we go to Clifton's Cafeteria on South Broadway, just a few blocks down that way. They have this policy that says, 'Pay what you wish. Dine free unless delighted.' Not that I've taken advantage of it, but it has saved me some money the few times Elio ate two bites out of his plate. He doesn't eat and enjoy food like a normal person. He eats like you, with a book in his hand."

Roy chuckles, delighted and proud. Now he knows what to get his son for his birthday. But behind the humor he finds, there remains regret, eating him from the inside out as he listens to her tale, lamenting over missing milestones. Unexpectedly, Roy's stomach groans and whines; an interruption he doesn't ask for. Embarrassingly, the sound grows louder, prompting Riza to trail downward to the source. Roy gawks at her with pink cheeks. "Sorry. All this talk about food is making me hungry."

"Ah, I should have asked earlier if you've had breakfast. I can make you something, if you'd like?" Riza offers, anchoring her weight against the back of the chair as she rises to stand.

But Roy's answer is buried beneath the sound of whistling wind and chiming bells. Elio whisks the volume knob on the radio, turning it up louder as if it would prevent the broadcast from concluding,  _"...So be sure to tune in tomorrow, same time, same station for the further Adventure of the Sea Hound. Until tomorrow then, as Captain Silver says, 'Smooth Sailing!'"_  Roy observes Elio's mouth twist into a frown, seeing an uncanny resemblance to his own when he ends a captivating book.

By this time, Riza has already left her seat and made her way to the kitchen. The faint shuffling of her feet finds purchase on the tiled floor.

Roy soon follows, mutely, before taking another glance at his son. Elio stretches his arms out by his side, rigid and firm, spreading like wings. Imitating an airplane, the boy soars towards the kitchen after his mother. A loud, persistent sound mimicking gunshots throttles from his mouth, some a deep grunt, some a piercing ring. The boy catches a glimpse of his father, who is watching him intently and with an amused smile. Elio flashes a toothy grin at him, the corners of his mouth stretching wider than his face. Suddenly, Roy's heart bursts from his chest, erupting joy, smearing an unexpected, silly grin across his lips.

"Mom, mom! What are you cooking? It's way too early to cook at home! You usually cook for dinner, but it's not dark yet outside!" Elio speaks with haste, voice projecting loudly but unfocused. The boy twirls his hips around, feet playfully sliding all over the floor, small fingers tangling in Riza's skirt. There is a screeching sound of skin against tiles made by his little feet, a sound that would normally irk Roy. But hearing it coming from his son curls a smile on his face instead.

With one egg in her hand, Riza cracks the shell, dropping sunshine onto the sizzling pan. She wipes a quick hand on her apron. Looking at her son with a kind gaze, she explains, "Elio, Roy is hungry and he needs to eat."

Elio steals a glimpse at Roy before declaring to his mother, shy and uncertain, "I already ate this morning. Winry made waffle... Maybe dad likes waffle, too."

Shock mars Riza's features, widening her eyes like an owl. She struggles to suck in air, her chest crumpling like paper waste, the sharp edges poking and prodding.  _Dad? Has he grown that comfortable to call him such a thing? He barely knows him for an hour!_  Riza ignores it, for now. But tonight, she will need to sit and talk with her son properly. There can be no misunderstanding. Calming her appearance, she smooths Elio's hair affectionately, saying, "I'm making eggs and toasts for Roy, honey. And remember, Elio, it's not Winry. It's  _Miss_  Winry, alright?"

Enthusiastically, the boy repeats after his mother, looking up towards the ceiling, "Miss Winry!"

Roy chimes in from behind with an acknowledging nod, "There ya go! Well done, Elio!" Elio turns and grins at him, his eyes squeezed shut into a thin line.

"Elio, can you do mummy a favor and set the table for Roy?"

"Yes, ma'am!" Elio salutes, body and hand stiff like a soldier. This earns him an endearing chuckle from his mother, a lighthearted laugh from Roy. Promptly, the boy leaves the kitchen with a set of utensils and a plate. He comes back not a moment after to search for a tablecloth and then meanders away. Next, he searches for a placemat and a mug before moseying on until the whole table is prim and proper.

Following the boy's eager disposition provides Roy with the details of her kitchen. When the bottom cabinet opens and closes, he hears a prolonged creak that doesn't quite belong. When the boy flies like a bullet past the refrigerator, Roy notices a grocery list a mile long taped to the side. But the sight by the archway connecting the two rooms catches Roy's attention, stunning his sight.

A small, palm-sized cross is hung on the wall. It is made of a thin block of wood, plain and dull, flimsy as a paper - something a child could make. The Christian symbol blends in with the beige wall like a chameleon, mindfully placed there to avoid curious stares, telling most of her guests that it is nothing worth considering. But Roy is not most guests.

"Riza, I didn't know you're religious."

Riza tilts her head at him, the spatula in her hand sitting restfully on the sizzling pan, under a perfectly buttered toast. She dawdles a tentative stare, searching his face for humor. When she finds none, she turns her focus back onto cooking before shrugging mildly, "I'm not."

"You hung a cross on the wall."

Her breath hitches, and Riza faces him. The demanding look he gives her is unavoidable. The man can be very persuasive when he wants to be, his piercing appearance lingering, prodding for a truthful answer.

Riza sets a distant gaze, staring past the browned toast in front of her, finding consolation anywhere else but at Roy. She reluctantly plates the food, suppressing delicate emotions as she speaks, "Elio was born a few weeks before his due date. I hadn't expected it, but now that I've had time to think, it might have been my body's way of warning me. I started getting panic attacks, almost every night. I went to the doctor, stayed at the hospital, but nothing had been helpful. I didn't know who else to turn to… so I turned to God. I prayed and prayed until eventually the attacks stopped altogether. And soon after that, he was born."

She turns her back and leans against the countertop, looking up towards her savior, "I suppose the mind will believe anything when one's desperate. But I have it hung up there as a sign of gratitude for getting me through my worst month." She glances at Roy, a fleeting pained expression crosses her features. "But to answer your question... No, I'm not religious."

Her honest answer is unforeseen, Roy laments, painting a crushing image wholly unexpected.

When Roy stepped off the plane to reconcile with the woman he loved, he buried past regrets and dug up convictions. But he understands now that it is easier said than done. Remorseful decision of six years past resurfaces, taunting him with the rise of bile to the throat and a vomitous stomach. When he looks up at the cross, he sees the sharp cutout of the Messiah judging him. Then, he turns to face Riza, whose depleted expression breaks his heart into a million pieces.

Roy asks solemnly, restraining the urge to pull her into a protective embrace, "Are you angry with me?"

Riza simply holds his gaze and shakes her head. "No."

"Did I…" He inhales and holds, shuddering at the exhale. "Did I make the wrong decision that night, Riza?"

She lingers an impassive look. There is no judgment in them, but the entirety of her appearance is deprived of emotions. Anger seems a better display, Roy contemplates, because at least he knows how she is feeling.

With a grit of her teeth, Riza asserts, "Roy, you know only you can answer that question."

"Mommy, I'm dooone!" Elio announces from the dining room with a high-pitched singing, endearingly off-tune, slightly muffled by the walls in between.

Glancing at her wristwatch, Riza states, "I have to leave soon. The diner needs me." A little reluctantly, she inquires, drifting a shy gaze onto him, "Do you... have a place to stay?"

Roy gathers a reply below guilt-ridden eyes, "I don't. But don't worry, I can figure it out on my own. I don't want to intrude."

"I have a guest bedroom. You can stay here if you want," replies Riza as she glides through the kitchen, one task to the next, in a seamless motion.

But Riza doesn't wait for his answer. With the hot pan in her mitted hand, she stalks her son in the dining room. Quietly, Riza plates, arranging the eggs and toasts into a delectable platter.

Roy glances at his coffee cup, untouched and full as he left it. But Elio has moved the cup to sit in the far left corner of the placemat. Then, without being asked, the child pours orange juice into the empty mug, slowly, trying hard to steady his little hands. The liquid sloshes anyway, spilling a bit on the tablecloth. Elio groans, rolling his eyes in annoyance before leaving in search for a cleaning cloth.

As Roy stands to watch, he realizes their every movement is a ritual, performed on a daily basis. The child knows the tasks he has been given, and he dutifully obeys, even with his callow execution. Roy chastises himself.  _What have you done? Do you see what you have been missing out on?_

When Elio comes back with a rag cloth, Roy smooths his expression and smiles, offering to wipe the mess. When the boy hands him the cloth, Roy ruffles the child's hair, saying, "Thanks, Elio."

Momentarily, Riza discards the stained apron around her waist, draping the stiff material over a chair's backrest. The oven mitt follows suit, placed flat on the table. Without saying another word to Roy, she calls to her son, "Elio, let's go."

"Wait!" Roy interrupts, his voice straining a plea - a desperate plea to learn more about the family he could have been a part of.

Riza turns to him.

"Can I… watch Elio while you're at work?"

Riza pauses. But as she studies Roy's hopeful expression, her mouth curves into a smile. Then, approvingly, she nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading!


	4. what it was that held us down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello. Here is chapter 4. I hope you enjoy!

**London, October 6, 1942**

For the past three mornings, Roy has awoken feeling restless. The temperature in the room is always cold, so in his half-dream he would involuntarily hug his knees and pull the blanket over his head, attempting to find heat in the arctic climate. A strong, foreign odor would then jolt him into consciousness. The scent is cloyingly sweet and metallic - the kind that constricts your chest and makes you cough, laced with a faint tobacco stench, invasive and persistent. He thinks it would have subsided by now... Well, it hasn't.

Once Roy has propped himself upright, his groggy eyes would search for his partner. But the bed beside his is already devoid of its occupant, neatly made, white cover pulled and stretched, tucked underneath the thick, springy mattress. The pillows are stacked high as a pyramid, the same way it was arranged when they first checked into the hotel. As he stares half-lidded, he forgets the day. Because everything - every crease, every unbent silhouette of his head, hell, even every speck of dust on her bed - seems frozen in time, looking the same as the day before.

Unlike the comfort of his bedroom on a second-story San Francisco apartment, the utilitarian space is tight and dull, completely drained of personality. A reproduction of Van Gogh's The Starry Night hangs in between their beds against a plaster of blank, white wall. The radio clock atop the corner vanity table is lying on its grave, rousing an unsettling screech each time Roy resurrects the appliance from the dead. The two twin-sized beds groan with each twist and turn like a cranky child, stubbornly rigid and hardly restful. The one and only wooden drawer by the window has been entirely claimed by Riza and her things, leaving no room for his. Lastly, yesterday's newspaper and lipstick-smeared tissues - the only disposables which make the room seem lived-in - will have found themselves snuggling within the proper bins by sunrise, removing most telltale signs of occupancy.

His chance at reprieve, however, arrives at the window sill each morning. To his left, the pale, autumn light of London pours in, shining a halo glow on a tin cup of coffee. Steam hovers above it like sheer, wispy clouds, denoting that it is freshly brewed, that his partner has just returned from her morning jog and picked it up on the way back. And the aroma. The wonderful, roasted hazelnut aroma dances itself past his nostrils, coaxing him fully from the obstinacy of slumber. Beside it, the sweet fragrance of buttered toast and marmalade linger, at times, joined by a piece of blueberry scone. Both are plated on a flimsy paper plate, grease soaked and undecorated, but Roy appreciates Riza's thoughtful gesture. At one point Roy declares mentally,  _"Whoever she marries is one lucky bastard."_

Riza always uses the bathroom first, so Roy makes himself useful by tucking and folding, replicating her side of the bed to a tee. It's the least he can do with all the neatness she lavishes the room with; it is also his way of saying thanks for going out of her way to feed his "exhausted arse". Then, as he waits for her to emerge tidy and smart, he curls up under the meager fluorescent light, nipping at his toast, sipping the much needed caffeine with the morning paper in hand.

The rest of the day would be spent conspiring at a secluded bench of an English bistro. Or preferrably, among the quiet field of St. James's Park nearby. Though the temperature outside is decidedly less amicable these days, there is something about the crisp, chilly air, and the verdancy of the trees and grass where birds gather and chirp, that precipitates a wanting to remain; doing absolutely nothing but sit and observe, enjoy natural beauty as it should be without the thoughts of war marring the view. But instead, the two agents have devoted themselves to the fight, because if God's not going to save the afflicted and the undesirables, then who will? They ceaselessly polish Riza's alter ego, discuss heatedly of politics, squabble until the muted October sky turns dusky, and concoct a believable background story for Mr Hayakawa.

For many weeks prior to Roy's arrival, Miss Hammersmark's identity has been twisted and pried, fine tuned and tested, until it runs like a well oiled machine. This leaves Roy to catch up, prompting him to conjure up his storytelling ability for one Roy Hayakawa.

_At the onset of the first World War, Mr Hayakawa's chemist father moved to France for purely intellectual reasons. Mr Hayakawa senior met Roy's Parisian chemist mother at a research convention. They got married, and soon after that, Roy was born. And he follows in the footsteps of his parents, becoming a chemist at a French research facility._

Riza has insisted that Roy don a slight French accent as a final touch, but he firmly declines for fear of jeopardizing their mission. Bickering ensues, but Riza finally relents with her hands thrown in the air, muttering passionately in German, " _so ein Idiot!_ " Fortunately for Roy, he understands precisely what she's saying, so he lingers an unamused stare until he sees the apple of her cheeks turn red. Riza eventually apologizes, and Roy summons the smuggest smile before reaffirming the use of his American accent, justifying the peculiarity with his premature move to California as a young child.

Surprisingly, even with their frequent spats, Roy works with her better than he had first imagined. It takes them less than an hour of morning walk to reach a compromise on cohabitation, less than an afternoon of tea and finger sandwiches to adapt to each other's oddities and niceties. And perhaps, most shockingly and done within the span of three days, they have learned to read one another's minds by simply watching for a furrow of his brows or a twitch of her lips. They complete each other's sentences like a set of twins, all done by the sole act of staring. It's laughable, Roy supposes, the seamless complementarity in which they move, act, and think amid the teasing and the taunting. If Roy hadn't known better, he could have sworn he and Riza were accomplices in a different lifetime; brother-and-sister in arms, commanding officer and loyal subordinate, that sort of thing.

But this morning, as the goddess of dawn stirs from slumber, an air of anxiety and tension accompanies. Upon waking up, there is no aromatic coffee or mouth-watering scones. The morning paper sits idle underneath the door, untouched and cold. Conniving at the park and collaborating in between nibbling on a slab of black pudding are a thing of yesterday. Roy and Riza must prepare, because on this fine Tuesday, their first assignment commences at the strike of 9AM.

Roy raps on the bathroom door impatiently, the fidgeting in his hand hasn't let up. "Riza, have you seen my tie?"

" _Which one?"_  she shouts from inside, voice muffled, barely discernible.

"Red! With a stripe in-"

Without warning, Riza swings the door in one swift motion, meeting Roy's half-open mouth. In her hand is the item of his searching, draped lazily around her palm.

"-the center..."

She lifts up the garment in her hand. "This one?"

Roy merely stares, stiff as a lamppost, parted lips on display. The answer to her question is lodged in his throat, stuck in the passage of his larynx like a bite of poison apple. Comedically, his mouth stutters a "yes" numerous times, but each time it is soundless. The room is typically dark, more so after the first morning light shines through the window. Today, especially, the sun seems to have climbed up much too high to avoid the blinding gazes of reflecting windows, sheltering itself behind heavy clouds. But in her sunflower gingham dress, Riza Hawkeye illuminates the gloomy confinement like a summer sunshine.

The way her golden hair is rolled and spun into a side bun accentuates her slender neck, effortlessly sensual. The cinch at the waist, white-belted and laced in the center, hugs her delicate frame into an enticing beauty. It's in her nature to be serious and aloof, further exacerbated by the dismal choice of color for her conservative fashion sense. But today, her appearance illustrates mischief and cheerfulness, painting a light and airy bounce on her makeup-laden face. It's all very inconsistent with her character.

But the image of an affable Riza Hawkeye is assiduously tucked in the recesses of his brain, shattered as she moves. With a quick and piercing stare, she steps onto carpeted ground, dicing a few sharp inches between them. Once again, she lifts the tie in her hand, hovering it over his face. "Hello? Roy?  _This one_?" she repeats, irritated.

Startled, Roy answers, "Sorry. Yeah, this is the one." He quickly snatches it from her hand, looking away to hide his flustered appearance. He presents himself in front of a mirror, unfurling his collar. "Why do you have it with you?"

"I laid it on the bathroom counter when I was cleaning the room. It slipped my mind to return it to where it was before. Sorry."

"And my book?"

"I put it inside your suitcase."

"Thanks."

Roy faces the man in the mirror. The man pouts, brows wrinkling with woes. Behind the charming speeches and perfect caricature of an intelligent man, Roy is loath to admit that he struggles with the slim piece of cloth in his hand. It is an effortless task for a man to knot one's tie, as easy as remembering their house address. Roy can recite the periodic table like second skin, explain the atomic properties of uranium without the aid of a textbook, but his fingers -  _his damn inept fingers_  - can only manage a mediocre result around a tweed fabric.

A mind reader as always, Riza steps in front of him. Her dexterous fingers fold and tuck and snake, gracefully turning him into a respectable gentleman. It's such a simple gesture. But for the third time this week, Roy can't help but feel a bout of jitters around his hands. His gaze is downward at her, expecting. Without fail, she examines her craft as usual. Once all is satisfactory, she smooths the length against his chest, patting it with approval. She doesn't realize, but during this time Riza would lean in senselessly to fold his collar, letting him catch a whiff of the lavender-scented perfume on her neck, dizzying his senses for a brief second until he rights himself.

"Alright, it's done," she says nonchalantly.

Roy smiles gratefully before teasing her with a revolting British accent, "Ta, Miss Hawkeye."

Huffing, Riza replies, "Don't mock me."

But Roy ignores her words, giving her a sincere look as he casually pushes away a stray golden strand on her bangs. "I like how you put your hair in a bun that way. It looks very nice."

Mutely, she flushes a pale pink, eyes looking away as immediate as the next beat of her heart.

As they finish getting ready, they head towards the door, bracing onto luck and prayers, wishing things will go smoothly.

The walk to Mayfair district takes a half hour. Riza's arm circles around his, her body pressed closely by his side, providing unsolicited warmth against the harsh morning wind. Her affectionate demeanor seems natural on the streets, contrary to her behavior with him in private. Roy ponders, more often than not, if she finds enjoyment at all in being assigned as his partner. He acknowledges that he might have set a terrible first impression, what with the unbidden flirtation and what not. But by now, she should have realized that Roy doesn't mean any harm by it.

They cross the street, weaving past moving cars to enter a French cafe.

From the inside of the restaurant, one can enjoy a mesmerizing view of Grosvenor Square. Not the entirety, of course, the park is much too large. Only the bits that Roy cares about. The manicured landscape with people smiling about is a chanced respite against the backdrop of drab, heavy clouds, sedating the adrenaline rush in his limbs. It reminds him of better times, as if nothing terrible has happened in the days before.

Across from him, Riza sits elegantly with a tea cup in her hand, pinky finger pointing to the sky. She has a lovely smile on her face, one hand over Roy's, caressing his skin tenderly with the glove material. The waitress smiles back at her, serving Roy's coffee order before strutting away in the direction of the kitchen. Riza promptly removes her hand from his.

Riza's fond smile and gentle caresses are entirely fabricated. She doesn't smile like that at him; only when she is Teresa. With one last look, Roy stares beyond the window, admiring the swaying trees, the bird watchers and the children playing. He must enjoy what few minutes he has left, because soon he will have to reawaken Mr Hayakawa from dormancy. And this fact wracks his mind and body, shaking him to the bones.

"What are their names?" Riza quizzes out of the blue.  _Is this an attempt to relax him? Perhaps she sees his nervousness?_

Roy answers quietly, clearing the anxiety in his throat, "Mr and Mrs Price."

"First names," she shoots back sharply, "I'm friendly with her, remember?"

"Henry and Emma."

She gives him a hard stare, demanding more without a word. Gingerly, she places her cup on the saucer, clinking the chinas together while holding his gaze.

His arms fold on the table. With controlled breath, Roy recites texts upon texts, the little details he has memorized for the past three days in his head. But he simply says, "Nazi sympathizers."

Riza glares at him.

Lightheartedly, Roy laughs, finding amusement in her reaction. "I'm sorry, I can't help myself. You should look in the mirror. You look like you want to murder me."

"Not as much as I'd like to murder a certain man with a grotesque toothbrush mustache," she replies with a killer smile. But the mild brow twitch displays her annoyance. She inhales and, at the count of three, exhales, expelling all of the unnecessary temperament amidst an important mission.

Roy chuckles, hands clasped in a prayer pose. "Other than being a Nazi sympathizer, Mr Henry Price is a good friend to our dear novelist Mr Alexandre Arnaud. They often house each other during holiday visits, shoot game birds together, wine and dine together. The Prices helped promote his first novel back in 1939, and I wouldn't be so surprised if Henry and him are fuck buddies now."

"Roy,  _please_ ," Riza pleads, sincerely.

Smoothing his teasing appearance, Roy clears his throat, continuing, "Mrs Emma Price is a gossip queen. You don't tell her anything unless you want the public to find out. They have no children together, and she often visits her  _friendly_  neighbor Mr Philips." Then Roy whispers as a patron strolls past their booth, though keeping his demeanor casual, "Our assignment is to have the Prices introduce us to Mr Arnaud. And Mr Arnaud is one of the few people with knowledge of the second German heavy water."

"Very good. We depart in two days for Mr Arnaud's launch party in France. We have to sweeten the Prices today, or at least Mrs Price because she's the easier target, or we fail," Riza warns, concocting an endearing smile between her sentences as another patron passes by.

"Riza?" Solemnly, Roy asks.

"Hmm?"

"Why do you dislike me?"

She pauses for a second, but keeps a blank expression. "I don't dislike you."

The displeased lines on his forehead thicken, more visible than usual with his bangs slicked back. "Well, you're always so hot and cold. Which is it?"

Folding her arms together, she answers without meeting his sharp gaze, choosing to stare beyond the brown liquid in her hand instead, "Neither. I don't make it a habit to get to know agents I work with on a personal level."

Raising his voice slightly, Roy states, leaning against the backrest, "That's a bit unfair, isn't it? You read my file. If that's not getting to know me personally, then I don't know what is."

"Roy, please keep it down," says Riza firmly. She takes out a cigarette from her small clutch. The cling of metal against metal can be heard coming from within the purse. Lighting the tobacco with a slight tremble, she draws in a puff. A thick, white haze spills from her mouth and nose as she breathes out, obscuring her red-painted lips, softening the irk in her eyes between long, curled lashes. "Reading your file is necessary for work. What I don't need is to commingle myself with all facets of your personality. I can only tolerate so much."

Roy taps the table with his fingers, a wavy motion, his nails clacking against the wood. He then tugs incredulity at the corner of his lips, gaze slightly pained, scoffing, "That's not very nice to say, Riza."

There is a faint remorseful look about her face, but it quickly disappears as she takes another puff. "Well if you must know, it's because you never seem to take our job seriously. You make jokes here and there, and frankly, my ears are tired from listening to them."

Roy sighs heavily, emphasizing his reply in an irritated manner, "I  _do_  take this seriously. I just try to find lightheartedness in the middle of all this...  _gloominess_."

Another puff. Then, she blows a thick smoke towards him in defiance. With a voice just as thick she states, "People in Birmingham won't appreciate your jokes. Nor the ones in Sheffield and Coventry. Even the ones in London. They're too fucking busy rebuilding their cities from the Blitz and whatever other attacks might come their way next."

"Alright, fine. I'm sorry if my jokes offend you. But something tells me there's more. You're not the only one with the hawk eyes, you know." He lingers a scrutinizing gaze at her, seeing a twitch at the corner of her lips as she releases a train of thin smoke at an angle. Roy continues, "...but I won't press you further. Not now anyway."

"Good, because Mr and Mrs Price are walking towards the cafe."

Unexpectedly, Roy snaps his fingers in front of her face.

"What's that for?" Riza asks, a fleeting shock to her face.

Smirking, Roy explains in a whisper, "For good luck."

When the middle-aged couple enters the cafe, Riza rises from her seat, flourishing a cheery hand, beaming an exciting smile. Quickly disposing of the cigarette in her hand, she intertwines her fingers with Roy's, feeling his warm hand beneath her glove before drawing him towards her intimately. Roy rounds the table to stand beside Riza, wrapping an affectionate arm around her waist like a dutiful lover, bringing her closer to him. If he wants to annoy her further, he can lay a kiss on her cheek for a believable effect. But he has a few more months until the end of the assignment. For the time being, he will keep his mischief in his pocket.

"Emma! How are you?" Riza hugs the woman warmly, pecking her on both cheeks. Teresa Hammersmark's German accent is noticeable, thick and heavy, her voice friendly and inviting. She then extends a hand to the older man. "Henry, nice to finally meet you. Can I call you Henry? Emma mentioned you so often, I feel like we're old friends." The man nods, smiling courteously. Looking at Roy with a seductive smile, Riza blankets a teasing hand over his - the one he rests on her hip. "This is Roy Hayakawa. A friend from work."

"Nice to meet you, Emma, Henry." Roy nods at the woman then offers his hand to Mr Price, shaking it firmly when the man reciprocates. His other hand remains on Riza, weaved between her pleated skirt.

"Roy, I met Emma a few weeks ago at the driving range. We played a game or two since. She's a  _wonderful_  golfer."

"Oh, such a sweet talker you are, Teresa!" The older woman laughs outwardly, a giddy hand waving off the compliment while the other is cupped genially on Riza's shoulder. Emma steals a coquettish glance at Roy, eyes rolling from top to bottom, studying him with intensity. She looks at Riza, prying, whispering furtively, "Are you sure he's just a friend, dear? His hand is draped a little too closely to be a friend."

"Oh he's just a  _friend_ , Emma. Our work doesn't allow fraternization." Riza giggles, winking at Emma mischievously, enticing her with frivolous talk and soap opera drama - the woman's favorite pastime.

Emma throws her head back as she laughs breathlessly, eyes lighting up in delight. There's an inquisitive look about her face, and she promptly takes the seat closest to her. With an ecstatic, booming voice, Emma says, "Oh dear, I like where this conversation is going! Let's sit down, and please do tell me more!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading! :)


	5. climb up from the walls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Happy December! I hope you enjoy this chapter! :)

**Paris, October 8, 1942**

The glamour of Paris is a distant memory, tucked quietly in the alcove of Riza's mind. The city before her has been painted with everything it dreads. There's terror in the air, in the trembling breaths of the citizens, in the drawn-out muteness that was once filled with idle chatter. Hostility on the streets, in the parade of soldiers and the constant clunking of rolling tanks. There's despair in the water, in the fabled romances on the Seine, now placid and a murky gray. Stationed men with rifles on their shoulders stand like tree trunks at arm's lengths, their green uniforms a jungle of watchful eyes. It's thrilling, Riza supposes, in its own terrible way. It keeps her on her toes, sustaining the rush of adrenaline in her limbs to complete what she has set out to do.

It is now thirty minutes to 2100 hour.

The telltale signs of curfew have already seeped itself into the city, fear of the repercussions dictating every movement, every action. At precisely 2100 hour, the whole of Paris goes dark. Behind leaden clouds, there is only the pale glow of the moon and the stars to pierce the City of Light. In the eerie silence, the pavements become a graveyard to murmuring leaves, empty chairs and abandoned cafewares, quick whispers of feet scrambling towards the safety of their homes. Stray animals cower under burgeoning hedges, balled up into a slumber as the last flicker of light perishes in the distance.

"Teresa, wait!"

Before Riza can heed his warning, Roy has grabbed her arm, herding her to his side. The rushing motorcyclist shoots her a menacing glare, chastising her in French before maneuvering past honking cars, " _Hé, regarde où tu marches!_ "  _Hey, watch where you're going!_

Gradually releasing his protective grip, Roy asks, worry blanketing his timbre, "Are you alright?"

Riza collects her thoughts, thawing the shock on her face. She meets his furrowed brow and pointed gaze, as if demanding an answer. Finding an offer of his arm as she looks downward, she replies in a familiar German accent, "Sorry. I'm fine." Reluctantly, she links an arm around his, dashing past the roundabout intersection together. They head towards the looming structure just beyond the chaotic lanes, a palace-like splendor fitting for a king and his queen.

_L'Hôtel Ritz_  is one of the few establishments immune from the imposition. The building houses the Luftwaffe - air force soldiers, the ranked and the enlisted. Much like how the Gestapo settles on 93  _rue Lauriston_  to the west and the German commandant at  _Hôtel Le Meurice_  to the south; every corner of the city is inside the Führer's grip. While the residents of Paris lurk in the shadows, only the facade of these hotels partake in the camaraderie. The core burns a crackling campfire, bright enough to keep the party alive.

Entering through the double door, Riza concludes the indoor activity to be a disgust. There is no sense of boundary. Everyone is everywhere, against the wall, on the floor, under the bench. The sober and the drunk, a safari of men and women in a rather wild behavior. A fountain's worth of champagne flows in the air, soiling her nostrils with a sickening prickle. There's unrestrained laughter and boisterous conversations abound, stolen from the throat of every Parisian hiding in the dark.

" _Monsieur, mademoiselle. Bienvenue_ ," the French receptionist greets in automation. He smiles, a grin of disdain. The rest of his face contours to the stretch of his jaw. But his eyes are hollow, his listless body even more so. He seems like a man who once enjoyed his job but now can't wait to escape it.

Resting his fedora on the granite countertop, Roy says politely, " _J'ai une réservation au nom de_  Roy Hayakawa."

The receptionist's mouth curves again, just as artificial. " _Oui. Pour deux nuits?"_

" _Je ne sais pas combien de temps je vais rester."_  I don't know how long I will be staying, replies Roy.

" _Quelle sorte de chambre désirez-vous?_ "

Riza glimpses in awe. While Roy's Parisian dialect is not perfect, it's not as broken as his file claims it to be. His speech is strung with confidence, smooth and spoken without fear, enough to fool others into hearing flawless proficiency.

Riza meanders a few feet away, drawing a circle with her steps, observing the surrounding activities. She listens to the rhythmic clop of soldiers' boots, finding the ornate interior clashing with the gallanting endeavor of the guests, noting the number of guards posted against the wall. Even as she busies herself with such examination, she doesn't miss Roy's mischievous reply to the receptionist, " _Je voudrais une chambre… avec un grand lit_."

She approaches, kicking his foot with her sharp heel, hard and firm. A grimace blooms on his face and he faces her. Much to his chagrin, Riza keeps a calm expression, displaying a face as innocent as a child's. She interrupts with curiosity lacing her accent, feigning a lack of knowledge of the language with a furrow of the brows, "What are you  _saying_ , Roy?"

Glancing at her embarrassingly, he recovers, explaining to the man behind the counter, "Ahh right... My friend here doesn't speak French. Only German and English. If we could just… converse in a language we all understand, that would be best."

The corners of Riza's lips tug in contentment.

The receptionist maintains a stiff expression, his voice uncaring and bored, "Very good, sir. You were saying you wanted the one large bed?"

Roy amends when he senses Riza's gaze drilling into him, "No. I would like two beds, please."

"Of course, sir. Here's your key. Second floor."

Roy swipes the key, slipping it into the depth of his pocket. Plucking his hat and coddling it under his arm, he asks the man with a charming smile, "And where is the ballroom located?"

"Just follow the hallway, to the right."

"Thank you." Roy bends his knees, picking up their suitcase, knotting the leather handle into his hand. His other hand, determined and eager, weaves into Riza's unanticipated one. "Let's go, Teresa."

Leaning against his arm, Riza matches his footsteps. A confident, uniform gait clacks on the marble beneath her heels, but she employs a confused timbre, "Are we not going to put away our luggage first?"

He whispers close, his lips ghosting over her ear, piercing through the loud noises around, "We will be at the party around this time tomorrow. I want to do a sweep of the guards and see what kind of schedule they have."

The hallway leading to their destination brims with decorated officers. There seems to be more of their kind here than the people of Paris put together. Bouquet of cigars is laden, taped shut to the mouth of soldiers and their companions alike. Each puff stains a gray haze, supplying further obscurity to the billow of smoke, darkening the corridor into a sinister cave. There's an unsettling air about it, and it smells fouler, too. It feels as though they're walking into a trap, a vicious beast waiting at the end of the tunnel.

Once they turn right, however, a dim, golden light bleeds back into view. There is a restaurant opposite the ballroom, situated behind several glass doors. Inside, there are more clouds of smoke, limbs tangling about, a carousal of men and women atop dinner tables and in between overfilled benches. Riza spots two vacant chairs, upholstered seats with a clear view of the guards in the corridor across. They beckon, begging to be exploited by the two agents and their good work.

When they step inside, the temperature feels like the muggiest summer day in London, humid and suffocating. There's sweat-soaked shirts and scantily clad dresses in abundance. For fear of sticking out like sore thumbs, Riza removes her gloves, then her black coat. Underneath the thick outerwear blossoms a tidy, yellow top, mirroring the shade of her hair, coloring the space with a much needed tint. The high-neck short sleeve hugs her femininity into refinement. Her black skirt wraps around her slender waist, falling long and delicate down to her toned calves. There's a smugness in the way she leans against the high-back chair, with one leg propped over a knee, that makes her all the more attractive. Underneath the elegance, however, is a certain metal object concealed for protection.

Roy follows suit. Disposing of his trench coat reveals a man of slim, athletic build, covered in a clean-cut vest. He sits with flawless posture, sophisticated and neat, a reprieve from the philandering view around. There's an air of class and intelligence about him, a man who can hold a conversation of various subjects, with a fair amount of mysterious disposition to woo any man and woman alike. He, too, hides the same protection beneath his black trouser, in a jerryrigged strap, clasped securely around his ankle above his oxfords.

The waiter arrives. The man is tall and lanky with reddish brown hair plastered to his head, shiny and drenched in gel. With both hands clasped in front of him, he eyes Roy strangely, a mix of caution and awe, as if he has never seen a man with dark features as black as the night. If the waiter is reluctant in serving them, then he doesn't show it. Cordially, he inquires Roy, who is casually leaning against the back of his chair, "What would you like to order, sir?"

"Scotch," Roy says simply, unlooking, his focused gaze locked on Riza.

Turning to Riza, the man's wary appearance softens. "Ma'am?"

Riza looks at the man with amiability. "Likewise."

Immediately, Roy interrupts, "Just tisane for the lady, please."

She snaps her head at Roy, a display of surprise and disbelief. Lingering her expression for a brief moment, she sighs in defeat.

"Ma'am?" the waiter inquires once more.

Nodding at the man, she forces a small smile. "Tisane is fine. Thank you."

As the man saunters into the back of the room, Riza hits Roy with a spiteful stare. The foreign lilt in her voice is crystal clear, but her tone is very characteristic of the woman behind the mask, "Roy, what the hell?"

Calmly, he replies, embracing her severe gaze, "You've come down with a headache from the flight. Take it easy."

The line on her shoulders slackens. But there's a self-conscious look about her, as if such malady is unwelcomed. The rose flush on her cheeks is conspicuous as she stares back in incredulity. "How do you know?"

The waiter returns. In his hand is a tray of prescription, a teapot hot to the touch, with steamy contents enough to put one's mind at ease. Beside it, a rock glass with golden brown liquor to drown out sorrow and misery. He then leaves dutifully when a customer rings with a wave of their hand.

Resuming their conversation, Roy states matter-of-factly, "Well, you kept pinching the bridge of your nose during flight. Your forehead creased a few times during our drive. And you almost got run over earlier." He then asks gently, "Are you feeling better at all?"

Gingerly, Riza pours a stream of the hot, clear liquid. A part of her wonders if her behavior is as visible as he makes it out to be. She sips the herbal tea, coating her tongue with the warmth, before answering truthfully, "I'm feeling much better now, thanks."

Roy is silent, with a peculiarity suspended about his look. Words continue to elude him, but a relieved curve on his lips speaks significance. In a sudden turn of event, Riza feels exposed, down to the bones. His expression is too affectionate for comfort. She almost wants to huddle underneath the table, to hide from the man. Heat courses through her limbs. And Riza isn't sure if it's from the tea in her hand or from Roy's inescapable charm. In the uncertainty, Riza insists her reason as the former.

She counters the awkwardness, truly curious, "Roy, why do you insist on speaking English with our novelist friend? Clearly your French is good enough."

Roy takes a swig of his drink, sighing in satisfaction, leaving a track of contented sounds before stating, "A Frenchman will be able to nitpick. Mine is not perfect like yours."

Scoffing, Riza replies, "If you say so. I'm not so sure the man is all that intelligent from the way he writes."

He smiles in agreement. "You're probably right, but just in case." With solemnity, he adds, "I notice two guards by the south entrance near the ballroom. What do you see on yo-?"

She can only make out the rest of his words. An unexpected surge of younger and livelier people flock into the dining room, drowning his sounds. With the overflowing of bodies, breathing suddenly becomes much more difficult. The temperature rises several degrees, more clothes shed and tucked in the empty recesses of each booth. Laughter and loud, indiscernible chatter crowd the space. The pooling cigarette haze now screens the establishment. Unfortunately for the agents, the constant lingering of guests by their table adds burden to the completion of their objective. They can't speak as freely as before, resorting themselves to a less than ideal way of communicating.

Determined to finish their self-imposed mission, Riza flicks a furtive vision to her left, capturing the number of guards in her periphery. Then, her hazel eyes trail, wide and unblinking. She senses Roy's inquisitive gaze, and she blinks, long and hard. She extends one hand on the table, unfurling her fingers, inviting Roy to catch it. As he envelopes her hand, she grips it vise-like, then releases.

Inconspicuously, Roy responds between sipping his drink, his eyes glancing at the intricate grandfather clock across the room, "It is nine thirty right now."

His free hand searches for a cold, round metal item in his vest pocket. In a quick, fleeting motion, his eyes shift downward to lift the watch, letting it snare the flickering light. Finding its small hand ticking down, Roy starts counting the seconds in his head, promptly dropping the piece back into the dark.

Within a minute's time, she repeats the grip, tight and strong.

Twisting her palm gently to the sky, Roy traces his fingertip on her skin, carving his understanding of her code. Changing of  _three_  guards, Roy writes, the number signaled by her blinking. It starts at nine thirty and takes place in the span of roughly  _one_  minute, all based on the expansion and contraction of her hand. He traces a slow, straight line, deliberate and mindful, inscribing the number one. It begins at the line of her wrist, ending at the calloused edge of her palm.

Riza bites her bottom lip in reflex, aware of the tingling sensation on her skin. She nods in confirmation upon locking his gaze.

Roy then curls her fingers in, gathering warmth around her slackened fist with both of his hands. His mouth quirks pleasantly as he affirms with a gentle squeeze. "Good."

Abruptly, she withdraws from his grip. "Roy" is all she says, a hint of worry as she calls his name. Maintaining a casual demeanor, she struggles for her teacup, bracing it for comfort, adding, "The  _Soldaten._ "

Roy's appearance returns her concern, his voice quiet, yet the tone hasty and demanding, "What about him?"

She threads the words, "He's ahh-" But a string of nerves knots in her throat as the man materializes before her.

The soldier removes his side cap, revealing a neat pile of slicked chestnut hair. From the high collar of his uniform to the hem of his pants are stiff and unwrinkled, orderly and polarizing against the background. His blue eyes are lucid, sober and full of intention. His voice even more so, with a wealth of confidence, "Miss, I couldn't help but notice you from where I sit."

Bringing a hand to her mouth, Riza exclaims, "Oh? How do you mean?"

"How very rude of me. I'm Fredrick Wegener. And your name,  _schöne Frau_?" The man offers his hand to the beautiful lady, the other tidily concealed behind his back.

Taking his hand, Riza states with a flattered chuckle, "Teresa Hammersmark."

Fredrick collides his lips with the back of her hand. "Miss Hammersmark. It's a pleasure to meet you." He straightens his spine, clearing his throat, mustering confidence. With a boldness about him, the soldier inquires, "If you don't have any plans tonight, we are playing poker at the salon at ten o'clock. I would be delighted if you could join me."

Riza replies, "Oh, that sounds-"

But Roy interjects curtly, "The lady's busy tonight."

Amending the situation, Riza states firmly, ignoring Roy's brusque attempt, "Actually, no. I'm not busy tonight. The salon at ten?"

With a prominent smile, the soldier nods. " _Ja_."

Endearingly, Riza giggles, saying, "I would love to. And I will join you at your table, if you don't mind. But let me speak to my friend here before I leave."

"Of course. I shall wait at my table."

When Fredrick leaves, tension permeates. The air becomes a degree more suffocating than it already is. They both stare at each other with a binding glare, too stubborn to look the anger away. Roy crumples his shirt with one hand from frustration, over his chest, as if it would relax his pounding heart. Riza leans back against the chair with her arms jumbled below her breasts. Her demeanor is defensive, her expression unwavering, determined to prove her partner that she made the right decision.

It's a question of safety rather than morality. But to the others around, they look like a young couple bickering over a case of uncontrolled jealousy.

Roy speaks first, his tone laced with severity, " _What_  are you thinking?"

"Roy, I want to explore the rest of the hotel. Besides, Fredrick and his friends seem  _insightful_ ," she replies, eyes large and gaze unrelenting, emphasizing her need to gather intelligence.

In a flustered manner, Roy slicks his hair back, inhaling deeply. He rests his elbows on his shaking knees, bending forward with his hands clasped close, stressing his concern, "But I won't be there if anything happens."

Her face is all narrow eyes, pointed and irritated, "I'll be fine. I can handle myself."

"That's not what I mean… I know you can, but-"

"Roy. I'll. Be. Fine." She leans forward, closing their distance, inches from his face. "Besides, I promise I won't let him touch me  _much_  tonight."

Roy growls under his breath, "That's  _not_  funny, Riza."

Smirking, she lifts a single brow, quipping back, "You were the one that said we need to make a lighthearted situation out of  _this_."

Decisively, he asserts, "No. Not when it concerns you."

Her lips part in surprise. For a moment, words are robbed out of her tongue, the air out of her lungs. Riza studies Roy's expression, scouring for frivolity. As she finds none, her heartbeat begins to race, faster than the ticking second. Shying her gaze away, she says, "Thanks for your concern, but please trust me." With a noticeable heave, she adds, "Will you be a dear and take our luggage to the room?"

He chuckles grimly, an air of failure around him. "It seems I can't convince you to stay."

Grabbing her coat from the chair, she sets her sight at Fredrick and his fellow soldiers. She reassures, "I'll return safe and sound." She rises and takes a short, shallow step. Then another. Walking past Roy with the rest of her conviction, the chance to back down collecting in the dust.

Before Riza completely leaves his view, Roy captures her hand, gripping onto it tightly as if his life depends on it. She turns to him, stumbling upon his disapproving gaze, feeling his protesting touch. But for the first time since she met him, she remarks how captivating his eyes are, compassionate and deep with sincerity. They are misting with concern for her. Everything about it creates doubt in her heart. Suddenly, there's a heightened urge to bend her self-inflicted rule, the rule to maintain professionalism at all cost. But she steels herself for the time being, choosing to focus on the task at hand. In consolation, Riza curls her lips, presenting the man with a genuine and warm smile, "I'll be back, Roy. It's a promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading! The wonderful Babs (aka B. Griveros) drew my commission for an Atlas poster and I'm super duper happy with the result. Take a look at the pic on my tumblr, **[ruikosakuragi](https://ruikosakuragi.tumblr.com/)** , when you get the chance :).


	6. just you and me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to everyone who reblogged chapter 5 (and also the previous ones) on tumblr. Your support is much appreciated :). I hope you enjoy chapter 6!

**Los Angeles, July 8, 1948**

It is a bright and sunny Thursday morning. The sun is spying into the apartment, through the sheer, lace curtain over the window. Its white light stamps immaculately shaped canaries onto the dining table where Roy gratefully ate his eggs and toast, cooked with love by the woman he has spent years searching in between assignments. In his head, a million of questions flock, countless as the stars in the sky. They form a constellation of wonder and concern and curiosity, each shining brighter as the day goes on. The one question that has always shone the brightest, however, is one about his son. It hasn't let up, flaring strong and luminous as the North Star.

His son is here, flesh and bones, all snorts and giggles. Elio and his knapsack, expecting and eager, tug the corners of Roy's mouth in a pleasant manner, albeit a little goofy. Roy stands by the refrigerator, his left arm stretched to reach into the dark, unfamiliar shelf above it. With the scarlet of shame poking at his pride, the father tiptoes, bridging the narrow gap with the allowable extra inches, attempting to find the item of his searching. His son, standing with shuffling feet beside him, employs a gape, with large, round eyes penetrating through the wooden cabinet.

Trailing his father's hand, Elio commands, "It's behind the paper towels. I know it is." Hearing a rustle from above, the child yells, "It's there! You got it!"

As Roy's heels find purchase on the tiled floor, the rest of his arm comes tumbling down with them. In his hand is a large bag of M&M's, a chocolate confectionery coated in most colors of the rainbow, the kind kids go ballistic over. Roy chuckles, amused, as to why Riza decided to hide it there, behind a mountain of paper towel rolls and on such a high ground. Roy knows the answer, of course. But just for today, he pretends to be clueless, to be ignorant, for the sake of seeing more of Elio's carefree smile.

"Here you go, just one pouch, okay?"

Elio's eyes cross in the center as he stares at the brown, rustling bag, the candy only a touch away from the tip of his nose. His expression is of excitement and awe, sustained with a pleased droning sound under his breath. The kid looks as though he has just seen the most astonishing magic trick. Looking up at his father, Elio says in a voice bordering between cautious and begging, "Can I get one more?"

"I don't think your mother would like that, Elio."

But Elio smiles, the corners of his mouth meeting the crinkle of his eyes, the sweetest and most adorable grin Roy has ever seen. The boy says cheekily, "But the other one is for you, dad."

Before he knows it, Roy swipes two more pouches into his hand. There's a sudden, deep, dull twist of joy in his chest, prolonged and overwhelming, as he stares at the pleading boy. The will to be stern has gone down the drain, as rapid as a waterfall. In a tone of defeat, Roy says quietly, as if the walls would pass judgment for telling lies, "Ahh damn. Here, take two more bags. Just don't tell your mother."

Gripping the chocolates, Elio jumps, once, twice, the weight of his little feet reverberating along the smooth, laminated tiles. "Yay! Thank you!" Then, with his little hands, he buries the candies within the knapsack, residing along a red, gift-wrapped object of a square kind. Suspiciously, the boy lingers a peculiar stare, a mix of innocence and naughtiness, with his head peered slightly downward but eyes focused at his father. "Do you think we can take some Coca-Cola, too? Mom keeps them in the fridge, above the fruits."

Smirking, Roy answers, arms folded across his chest, one foot tapping on the floor, "Nice try, sport. But I think that's a little too much sugar for you."

"But what if we're thirsty?"

"Where is the vacuum flask? We'll fill it with water."

With his hands behind his back, Elio's gaze wanders along the floor tiles. There's a sneaky look about him, the answer to Roy's question hidden in the mischievous fold of the boy's tongue. But the five year-old simply says, "I don't know where it is."

Searching through Riza's cupboard yields a fruitless result. Roy closes another cabinet, a slight creak resounding, followed by a slam of wood against wood. Then another, then another. Roy sighs in frustration, arms limp beside him. Riza's elusive organization skill has claimed victory. He then opens the fridge, plucking two bottles, dark with fizzy liquid, and stuffs them into an additional knapsack he found in Elio's room. Roy says to his son, stealthy, with index finger shushing his own lips, "Please don't tell your mom about this, too. I have a feeling she will strangle me."

Curiously, Elio asks, "What's 'strangle'?"

"'Strangle' like… she will  _hurt_  me." Roy wraps both of his hands around his throat, fingers spread in a claw. His head tilts sideways, tongue sticking out, flaccid over his lip, and his eyes roll backwards.

With a high-pitched shriek, Elio laughs, his excitement scratching his throat. "Dad, you are silly! Mommy won't strangle you!" His small body is curled like a ball, upper back hunched, with his hands fisted in front of him from enthusiasm.

Guiding his son out of the kitchen, Roy sets his bag on the coffee table. He wraps the cold bottles in a linen kerchief, cramming the fragile items neatly into one of the compartments within. Resuming their conversation, Roy says, "Oh mommy is nice, Elio, don't get me wrong. But that means you haven't seen her bad side yet."

"What does she look like when she's bad? Does she look like the green-eyed monster like in my storybook?!"

"Hmm that's a good guess, son. But actually, I think your mother looks cute when she's mad. It's just the thing she says is scary."

"Cute? Eww!" Elio grimaces. His eyes disappear into a thin line, teeth bared. The top, gappy row meets his scarce bottom set in a clench; a look of disgust.

Outwardly, Roy laughs, hands pressed to his stomach. The man can feel his body bobbing up and down like a buoy, humming along to the delight in his throat. An immediate twinge to his left abdomen catches him by surprise, but he rolls past the pain, expressing his elation once again to the world. Not long after, Elio giggles then joins his father in laughter. Both of his hands round on his belly, mimicking his father's gesture. It's a melody of pleasantness, of fondness, buzzing in the small, intimate corner of the living room.

Their walk to MacArthur Park feels short, with a bouncy gait belonging in kind to the spring season. Although the temperature is hot and dry, prickling to the skin, Roy and Elio walk hand in hand. They refuse to succumb to the heat for the sake of closeness. Under the tree, where a crisp green hue paints the leaves, and a cool shadow of the bough is untouched by the sun, Roy blankets the earth.

There aren't too many people loitering about. Just a few older gentlemen sunbaking by the lake, hands sunk deep inside their trouser pockets as they look beyond, contemplating. The atmosphere is tranquil, the kind that beckons for a nap under the shade. The occasional cool breeze calms Roy's heated back, carrying away the beads of sweat that begin to trickle. Roy sits with his legs crossed, his long pants soaking the damp soil seeping through the picnic blanket. Elio crawls on all four, finding a comfortable position against Roy's arm, his small body leaning snug and cozy against it.

Yanking the square object from his bag, Elio stares at it intently, white knuckles clenching the edges hard and unrelenting. A look of guilt washes his fair complexion, twisting the line of his mouth into a pout.

Roy asks, interested eyes gleaning over his son, "Do you not want to play with the tructor set? I have it in my bag."

"No…" the boy replies, reluctant.

"What's that in your hand?" Pointing to the gift-wrapped item, he studies his son, seeing a look of uncertainty under the tousled, raven hair.

Quietly, the boy says, "Mommy said this is for my fifth birthday. It's a book and I want to read it. I just learned how to read! I want to read more! But..."

"But your birthday isn't until next week. And you feel bad about opening it before then."

Elio nods, slowly and mutely.

With a warm smile, Roy says, "How about you keep that nicely wrapped until your birthday… And I'll teach you how to skip rocks today?"

With enthusiasm, the boy nods, exaggerated, his sharp chin almost touching his chest.

The water is calm and blue, warmed by the sun. It ripples occasionally, from floating ducks plunging their heads into the lake, from the flaps of their wings against the surface. Small, smooth pebbles lie on the ground generously, supplying hours of amusement for father and son. As Roy picks up several - the ones tiny enough to fit into his son's little hand, he weighs them on his palm, rubbing the dirt off with a brush of his thumb.

If Elio looks ecstatic, then Roy must look overzealous. The thought of teaching his son something - anything at all, makes his heart thrum out of his skin. As he places one small pebble, trusting its safekeeping to Elio, Roy can see his own reflection in the boy's demeanor. Similar to his younger self, the willingness to learn is there, visible even to the most ignorant of men. The eagerness echoes in the nods and the "yes"'s Elio says.

Roy muses further. Their physical resemblance is uncanny. The boy shares the same shade as his mother's irises - Riza's gentle, honey tint. But there's a slight slant in the outer corner of Elio's eyes, tugged up faithfully like his, an inheritance from Roy's mother's side. Seeing all of these remarkable familiarity in the child curves his lips with pride.

They spend a good half hour flicking their wrists, tossing the stones into the water like disks. The sound of the pebbles plunging into the depth of the lake - a  _blub_  - happens more often than they'd like. But even with only one successful skip - Roy's twentieth attempt, the boy seems to enjoy their simple activity. Elio soars into the air, shouts and cheers when his father finally executes that triumphant skip.

The bond with his son begins to mold beautifully, rounded and shaped with laughter and time. At one point, trust is thoroughly welded when Elio hugs Roy around his leg, hiding behind the pillar when a courteous, older gentleman bows his hat to the kid and compliments his throw. When the same gentleman tells Roy what a good son he has, Roy ruffles Elio's hair, savoring the moment with an affectionate pat on the child's back. The father's head is held up high, and a proud "thank you" to the older man follows.

Once the man leaves, the world is theirs again. All is peaceful and calm until talkative, little Elio asks his father a question out of anticipation. There is no consequence in his words. He asks it lightly, with the innocence of a child, "Dad, where did you go?"

Roy throws the stone. It stumbles against the rocky edge, plummeting into the bottom of the lake. The answer is caught in his throat like a lump of coal, rough and heavy. Hearing the question from his son - a mere child - doesn't alleviate an ounce of weight in his heart. How to explain his reason to a barely five year-old? "Dad... had something important to take care of."

Tilting his head, Elio's mouth straightens into a thin line. His cheeks plump up in succession, jutting sideways and out of his round face. He throws the small pebble in his hand; it dives straight down into the water. The boy has a look that says he has heard this answer before. With a nonchalant tone, Elio confirms, "Yeah, that's what mommy said, too. But do you know how I know you're my dad? Mommy doesn't even have to tell me and I already know."

Curiously, Roy asks, all attention on his son, "How?"

"Because I sound like you."

There's amusement in Roy's tone. "You sound like me?"

"When mommy talks, she sounds kind of weird. I sound more like you when I talk."  _Ahh_. Riza's British accent. "And do you know how else I know? I have black hair like you. It's not like the Mister with brown hair."

Roy's forehead wrinkle in confusion, the hard lines all the more visible under the sun. His mouth quirks with contempt as he bends down, fidgety hands on his knees, to meet Elio at eye-level. "Mister with brown hair? Who is this Mister with brown hair called?"

Elio throws another pebble, a harder and longer throw, straining his voice just slightly. "I don't know. His name is really hard to say. It sounds like 'cloud', but it's not. He always stops by the restaurant with pretty flowers for mommy."

"Oh he does, does he? Does this fellow still come by?"

"Umm sometimes..."

"Sometimes?"

"He came to the restaurant last week. And he brought chocolates. It was very yummy." Elio's eyes wander in the clouds, chin tilted to the side. With his index finger, he rubs his temple, thinking. Animatedly, he says, "And before that, there was another Mister. I forgot his name but his hair is gray like an old man. Mommy said he's young, but I told her he's not young; he looks as old as mommy. He gave mommy some flowers and books. And I think he's rich, because sometimes he gives me a lot of candies.  _A lot._  And then sometimes this big, tall man with no hair comes. But I think he is just mommy's good friend, because she always laughs when he comes in."

"Wait, exactly  _how many men_  are there?"

Rolling his eyes and sighing, Elio says, shoulders slouching down to the ground, "I don't know, dad… there's a lot. I don't remember their names anymore."

Sensing the child's boredom, Roy's mouth curls ruefully, saying with a smile, "Sorry, Elio. Dad is just…  _curious_."

"That's okay," Elio says plainly. Looking up at his old man, the child adds, eyes full of wonder, "Hey dad, are you going to stay with us?"

"Yes, I am." Kneeling on one knee, Roy attempts to tame his son's hair into a proper style, only to find himself tracing two steps back. In the inefficacy, Roy pats Elio's head instead. "I'm staying with you and your mother. In the guest bedroom."

With all short fingers fanned out over his mouth and a grin stretching wider than his face, Elio asks, "Are you staying in the guest bedroom forever? I want to play with you more, dad!"

Both of Roy's hands are placed on Elio's shoulders, one on each side. They are steady and firm, masking the shake, the unbearable tremble in his heart. Wistfully, Roy meets his son's eyes, seeing a hopeful glaze in them. If only the answer is a simple "yes". If it were so, then Roy will fiercely say it, over and over again, until his son gets tired of hearing it. But he merely says with a small smile, the best answer he can give his son at a moment's notice, "I want to, sport. I really do."

Elio doesn't say anything, silent and pensive, as if the boy can read his father's plight in between the words. Instead, he extends his short arms, wide and open, begging Roy to carry him. Roy weaves tender hands around the child, lifting him, perching Elio on his shoulders.

With a loud, grunting noise, Roy mimics a train, rushing back to their picnic blanket at the speed of light. Elio screams with glee, his tiny fingers gripping Roy's hair, mussing the already tangled mess further. The father then circles around the tree, sprinting, securing both hands around his son's legs. The child laughs, an uncontrolled laughter, piercing the warm, humming air. His excitement is such a wild and ear-splitting noise it surprises the birds, sending them soaring into the sky, free and spirited, until they shrink into tiny black dots among the clouds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading! I'm participating in Fullmetal Secret Santa on tumblr, so the next chapter might be delayed for a few days.


	7. before you drown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope you enjoy this longer-than-normal chapter :). A special shout out to LadyAureliana for her input on a _certain_ scene :)

**Paris, October 8, 1942**

The air is rambunctious, a harmony of laughter and riotous chatter. The bartender stands idly by, hands bound to his back as he dutifully guards the station behind the counter. Save for him, there are only six other people, all huddled inside the dim, romantic flicker of candlelight. Riza, Fredrick, a Luftwaffe soldier named Hans, and a French  _fille de joie_  called Céline occupy the crescent-shaped booth in the center of the room, wrapped in smooth velvet and lavished with tufted embroidery. On the other side, in the high-back chairs fit for royalty, are two middle-aged officers. Both are Fredrick's superiors - men who have monopolized all of the chips thus far.

With one arm around the French woman, Hans spies the suits on his cards, the edges battered from overuse, much like the man's disheveled appearance. The man's long nose twitches, barely noticeable, and his bangs drape his languid eyes as his head tilts down. Resting his cards face down, the soldier then draws an exaggerated puff of his cigarette and blows out a haze, an action he has repeated each time he has a decent hand.

The officer called Major Strasser scrunches his nose. He is a prim and refined man, with receding hairline and a lush painter's brush mustache that gives him an aura of self-importance. He devours the rest of his whisky in one large gulp. With a swift, untidy wipe of his mouth, he hammers the glass on the table. The furtive curl in the corner of his lips fools the players into thinking he's collected a set of winning cards.

Fanning the discolored cards in her hand, Riza pouts, eyes narrowed into a slit. In a contemplative manner, she stares at her deck, a full house of tens over kings; a high chance of her winning. But Riza concocts a disappointed tone, a saddened gaze finding Fredrick's, "It looks like I will have to fold, gentlemen. My cards are so  _unbelievably_  terrible." After all, it's always best not to draw attention to herself.

Fredrick slides a cajoling arm around Riza, fingers dawdling at the hem of her skirt. "Sorry to hear that, sweetheart." Gone is the decorous man, the amount of alcohol consumed clearly written in his behavior. Riza slides forward, stalking the edge of the booth so as to extract Fredrick's fingers from curling in around her waist.

"Check," Hans says with a blank expression.

Major Strasser replies, tossing five black chips into the mound, "And I raise."

Slamming the bent cards on the table, Hans mutters a series of expletives under his breath. The stress line on his forehead hardens as he snarls, " _Scheiße!_  I fold!"

Triumphantly, the major smirks, gathering the winnings into his arm. "You shouldn't be cursing in front of your superior officers, Private." He reveals his cards - a shitty hand of various low numbers and suits.

Everyone at the table applauds, drums against the table, raising a wild heap of hands in the air. Hans' face is one of annoyance, with a downward slope of his mouth and sharp, spiteful eyes.

In the fit of the merriment, a silhouette approaches. It's almost impossible to see beyond the boundaries of the pale, yellow glow of the candles. Without power, the room is as good as an abandoned mansion, lifeless and dark as the night.

"Good evening, gentlemen, ladies," a female voice joins the space, high-pitched and playful.

When the woman steps into the light, Riza finds Emma Price in attendance. The muscle in Riza's shoulders stiffens, sculpting a statue out of her form. Her hands threaten to shake, a discomforting numbness prickling the tips of her fingers. Controlling her breathing, Riza says to the woman, eyes widening with fake excitement, "Emma! How nice of you to join us!"

"Oh, Teresa, is that you?!" Emma exclaims, mouth agape with incredulity. Her head whisks around, searching. "Where is your  _friend_ , dear?"

The air is heavy with alcohol as Fredrick lunges towards Riza. With a wandering hand on Riza's thigh, the man slurs, an asthmatic wheeze, "She left her friend and chose to be here with me, Ma'am."

Uneasiness pools in Riza's stomach, a twisted, plummeting sensation, as if she's descending from the sky in a freefall. She swiftly extracts Fredrick's hand, chucking it aside. "Roy isn't feeling too good, Emma. He went to sleep," she reasons in a heartbeat, fabricating a sorrowful expression.

Emma stares with a skeptical purse of her lips. Her brows are cocked high, prying eyes thinned, a look bordering knowledge and suspicion as she catches Riza in a compromising position. "Oh, isn't that a convenient excuse," Emma declares.

Everyone is mute, all taut gaze towards Riza. Hans twiddles with the cards in between his fingers, but his eyes, narrow and pointed, dawdle a scrutinizing look. Major Strasser, who has poured himself another brimful of whisky, eyes the blonde woman fastidiously, examining her like she's a murder suspect.

Emma shatters the heart-pounding observation. With a critical tone, the woman remarks, "You're not who I thought you were, Teresa. You being here without Roy, and after all that talk about overcoming the fraternization policy for love. Was that all a lie? I thought you'd be more willing to take care of your sick man. Instead, I find you here with another man's hand on your thigh."

A deep, nauseating churn shoots bile up her throat. Riza swallows, the burning sensation acidic and grating. "I don't plan on being here long, Emma."

"You and Roy are colleagues? You didn't tell me that." Fredrick frowns, eyes half lidded. "Where do you two work again?"

Lingering a disapproving gaze at Riza, Emma plucks the cigarette from Major Strasser's hand. The British woman blows a puff, then another, all in Riza's direction, judging. Riza pauses with parted lips, her breath held hostage.

In between the tendrils of smoke, Major Strasser snatches the cigarette back from Emma. In a brusque, commanding voice, he says, "Leave the woman alone, Emma. And let's play another game, shall we?"

No one moves for a moment. But the British woman finally perches beside the major, quiet and obedient. Hans deals the cards, flinging them in a circular motion. Emma then smirks, carving a wide smile that bursts forth into laughter. She throws her head back, cackling, and finally says to the speechless woman, "Teresa darling, this is Paris. You can do whatever the bloody hell you want. Don't you worry about me telling Roy where you are, if you promise not to tell Henry where I am."

The ferocious thumping in Riza's heart dampens, her rigidity gradually melting. She silently exhales, expelling nervousness from her body. With a small, agreeable smile, Riza consoles, "Don't fret, Emma. Your secret's safe with me."

The atmosphere becomes boisterous once again. Another bottle of whisky consumed leaves less for the mind and more for antics and impropriety. There's a quick shuffle of cards, names called out, chips piling up to a mountain on the round table.

Sitting at the edge of the booth, Riza glues her eyes to her cards. She occasionally presses them against her chest, concealing the suits from the man beside her, hands fanning the edges every so often. "Say Emma, has our guest of honor checked into the hotel yet? Tomorrow is his big day."

"Alex has been preparing since last week. The hotel was generous enough to provide him a room to rest even though he lives in the city. They even let the small office in the back of the ballroom for him to use. When it comes to anything concerning himself, Alex is a perfectionist. Everything has to be done the way he likes," Emma states, a tone of certainty.

"The signs of a meticulous author. His books are brilliant, just like the man." Riza responds, her voice trilled, feigning admiration for Mr Arnaud. Depositing her cards on the table, she sulks, saying, "I fold. I have yet another terrible hand."

Riza eases herself onto her seat, posing frivolous commentaries as each player bluffs their way to victory. Her thoughts, however, have been running rampant with her next objective: the office behind the ballroom. But the agent must wait, at least until the game ends, because it's the sensible thing to do to allay suspicion. Her toes curl as the seconds tick down, impatient and eager, as though her feet will run off on their own. Her neck is keen to turn towards the door, and her mind is already crafting a careful departure.

When cheer erupts for the winner, Riza executes her planned exit. Gingerly, she rises, smoothing her skirt. With a charming smile, she says, "Well ladies and gents, I am going to take my leave. I need to attend to one sick baby."

A string of lighthearted chuckles echoes in the room. As Riza turns to leave, Fredrick abducts a fistful of her skirt, rough fingers pleating the black fabric, pulling it towards him. Facing the inebriated man, Riza gives him a pointed look, mouth quirked unpleasantly.

"Will I see you again tomorrow, Teresa?"

Riza sighs, her demeanor nurturing distaste. She leans forward, inching her face closer to the man. His clear blue eyes are now glinting dull and shallow. With a mock-alluring smile, Riza says, loud enough for everyone to hear, "It's been fun, Fredrick, but I'm afraid not. You're too drunk to remember anything by morning. Besides, I still prefer  _my_  man."

The men jeer in a low voice. But they're abruptly shushed by Emma's derisive order, "You heard the lady, Fredrick. Let go of her skirt."

Riza struts away, yanking the fabric, ignoring the soldier's inquiry. Fredrick stumbles, his limp body spreading across the booth. Appreciatively, Riza nods at the older woman. "Goodnight, Emma. See you tomorrow."

As midnight swallows the earth, the celebration at  _L'Hôtel Ritz_  is consumed within it. Patrons have retreated to the comfort of their beds, leaving only the trailing glares of Renaissance paintings as Riza lurks the corridor. The moment her feet meet gold woven carpet, the only noise accompanying is the drowned out clacking of heels beneath her. In the darkness, endless and grim, she careens, hands trailing the wall. The laughter reverberating from the salon fades with every step she takes.

She ventures a good distance from the salon. Taking out her cigarette lighter, Riza illuminates the way. The narrow hallway is empty, eerily so. And by the time she reaches a fork in the road, she can feel the cold, moaning draft raising the hairs on her arms. Instead of retracing her steps towards the restaurant to the left, she orients in the opposite direction. She hasn't traveled this side of the ballroom yet. If her calculation serves her correctly, following the wall to the right will take her to her intended destination.

At the end of the corridor is a large outdoor garden, somberly washed by the waning moon. The entrance to the office lies just before the arcing doorway leading outside, disguised as an unlabeled, inconspicuous storage room. She puts her lighter back into her coat pocket, killing the light, using her hands instead to guide the way.

Two guards are posted outside, behind the frosted glass, the triangular peaks of their soldier caps sprouting from the iron railing of the door. The silhouettes converse and share a smoke, occasionally provoking a strained chortle that sounds far away. Mindfully, Riza removes her shoes, carrying them in her hand as the carpet ends and marble floor begins. Without her heels, the ache on her toes departs in an instant, a temporary relief amidst the gnawing anxiety. The floor is cold on her skin, however, with only a thin layer of translucent stocking to intervene.

With shallow breaths, she nabs a couple of loose hairpins from her neatly rolled bun. She picks the lock, patiently, steadily. After poking and prodding with the thin metal object, Riza hears a sharp click. As quick as a fox, she enters, closing the door behind her.

The room is sparse, a perfect, colorless cube, occupied with only two furnishings in the heart of the space. A thick, wooden desk sits, with two knobless, cleverly concealed drawers beneath the tempered glass topper. It's a desk for the sort of people who seek utmost discretion, the dishonest who may use it to hide a wad of cash, or bury a love letter from a secret lover. A black leather chair is tucked neatly under it, the expensive kind that exudes power and wealth to those who nestle upon it. There is a door across the room, plain and white. And in the dark, the edges blend almost completely with the shade of the wall. Riza surmises it leads into the ballroom, where Mr Arnaud can re-emerge into the party, calm and dignified, after a much needed smoke break.

Brightening the space with her lighter, Riza inspects the desk. The surface is clear, albeit slightly dusty, as though it has been left unused for a while. Riza scours the first drawer on the left. The unoiled hinges whines as it rolls open, revealing brochures of Mr Arnaud's best selling book. Her hands scramble, unraveling, hunting. Pens, a stack of blank paper, and other office materials lie within it, alongside a printed advertisement for the event. Nothing important.

Riza doesn't realize, but she has been arresting her breath through the search. Propping herself upright, she exhales, a lengthy blow through her mouth, as if she has just run the longest mile of her life. There's a slight tremble in her breath, only noticeable in the deafening silence. In the stillness, Riza feels the need to drum her restless fingers on the desk, or perhaps put on her heels and produce a loud clacking noise to fill the quietness. Anything to give the office a semblance of life.

Searching the second drawer to the right produces a promising result. A letter, folded into threes, with the hotel's logo bearing the header, contains a handwritten note. In it says, in a large, neat cursive,  _"Mr Arnaud, here is the spare key to your suite per your request. Should you need additional services, please contact the front desk. We will be happy to serve you."_  Said key, however, is nowhere to be found. Riza pries for the next best thing: Mr Arnaud's room number. But even so, the information is not readily revealed anywhere on the paper.

Her hands shuffle the contents within, sloppy and hurried. "Bloody hell…" Riza mutters, irritated. "Of course he had taken the key with him..."

But a soft creak whispers from behind, turning her body stiff as a stone. Listening for further disturbance, Riza widens her eyes, gaze tense and anticipating. She counts in her head, one through ten, waiting for a subsequent noise that would jumpstart her adrenaline. As she maintains the vision in her periphery, hearing no telltale signs of being discovered, Riza can feel the agitation in her limbs flittering, the outline of her shoulders drooping in kind.

With a light push of her index finger, the drawer squeaks to a close. Scrupulously, she scans the room, inch by inch, sweeping every surface for any visible bread crumbs. Her breath hums in the darkness, but everything is in place, the dusty glass top, the dotted molasses stain at the edge of the desk. The last thing she needs to do is remove herself from the space, and all will be as presentable as it was before, empty and lifeless.

Riza exits the office. Slowly and with care, she closes the door, one hand reaching in to lock from the inside. In the lightless hallway, the same two guards glow more visible, their mouths blabbering and spitting laughter. They seem to be unaware of Riza's marauding activity.

The carpeted section of the hallway begins once again. Riza attempts to find warmth, comfort, in her now cool leather soles. It would soothe her for a time, for the pain is much more consoling than the dirty, frigid ground beneath her.

Riza thoroughly examines the long corridor. The cheerful noise erupting from the salon is still as vibrant as when she left it. Imprinting her palm on the wall, Riza takes one step, slow and deliberate, attempting to pass the lively room with as faint a sound as possible.

Suddenly, Riza halts in her step. In the corner of her eye, a suspicious figure prowls. The figure is masculine, not overly tall but with broad shoulders and a tight-fitting suit, as outlined by his defined silhouette. He leans against one of the towering pillars, spying into the salon from the narrow uncurtained window. The man moves gracefully from one pillar to the next, smooth and agile, as if the motion's been practiced a hundred times over. As he peers inside, he lifts his trouser, and an evident sketch of a pistol captures Riza's attention in the blink of an eye.

Riza doesn't know who is still in attendance at the poker game. There is no way to tell from where she's standing. But a few things stir her imagination, provoking a jittery sensation in her fingers, a wave of electric shock. Did Hans or Major Strasser suspect her? Is the man a Luftwaffe officer? Searching, waiting to apprehend her? Riza observes the mysterious figure. Being in the field for a number of years have taught her many things. And she is convinced that anyone who skulks in the shadow is  _rarely_  innocent. She must wait and observe, she decides.

Minutes have passed, and still the man lingers, a weapon in his hand. Riza mirrors him, enveloping the cold, metal object strapped to her thigh. The gun has been cocked, ready to fire, long before the poker game began. Her fingers slide to clutch the grip, tight under moist palm as she exhales through her mouth. From his direction, she hears a rapid sound of metal clicking into place. Unwilling to let the man proceed with his agenda, the agent finally makes her move.

She initiates a careful step, slow and cautious, one after another, sinking each foot against the carpet as though the ground is a thin layer of ice. But with her next footfall the floor creaks, emitting a drawn out groaning sound of an ancient building. At the noise, the man quickly conceals his body behind the looming pillar, surprised, followed by a sudden, subdued shuffle from his boots.

Forcing a step back against the other side of the wall, Riza mutters under her breath, " _Shit_ …." With the pistol in her hand, her heart begins to race, pumping adrenaline into her veins. Inhaling deeply, she plasters her back against the stony, cold wall. She listens for the clop of his boots. But he is quiet, painstakingly so, like a predator. Riza exhales, nursing a long and gradual breath, and at the count of three, she predicts the man's next move.

When the man steps closer, the same offending floor gives away his location. From behind the wall, Riza deftly extends her hand, pointing her gun and pressing it firm against his groin. Facing a pair of dark, glinting eyes, Riza whispers in her German accent, a hoarse, dry screech escaping her throat, "Hands up. Move back against the wall."

In a rich, silky voice, the man whispers, "Are you sure about that?" When Riza looks down, she sees the skinny end of a pistol hovering under her chest.

They sidestep, drawing closer an inch at a time, bridging their distance. As she feels the tip of his weapon press into her flesh, her vision finds the perpetrator. Familiar features materialize in sight. With incredulity, she rasps, face wrinkling with surprise, "...Roy?"

He looks as befuddled as she is, brows crinkling and gaze confused. "...Riza?"

Lowering his weapon, Roy closes their gap, sweeping the air away. His impulsive arms reach towards her, as if to pull her into an embrace. But they stop halfway before one of them - the one holding the gun - falls limp to his side. Yet, it doesn't stop his lingering hand from reaching her hair. With restless yet tender fingers, he brushes a few wild strands behind her ear, leaving trails of heat on her skin, each stroke a measure of his worry. In the moment, her body doesn't pull away, frozen, immersing itself in his affection. He then asks, tone worried and rash, thumb caressing her cheek, "Why is your voice so rough, Riza? Are you feeling sick?"

Harrumphing meekly, she says, "N-no, I'm fine. I just had a little too much to drink. I just need some water..."

"Are you sure?" he confirms.

Riza merely nods, leaning into his touch.

"Alright. Good."

In the dark, she can outline an appeased smile on his face, a shade of crimson curving into a half moon. His hand meanders away, and with it, his touch. And immediately, she feels cold, a polarizing sensation from the warm traces of his fingers.

Holstering their guns, the agents stride along the corridor before seeing a luster of light at the end of the tunnel. They locate the lobby, now mute and vacant, with only one person working behind the concierge desk. The absence of philandering and frolicking is a welcome change. For once, Riza can picture the hotel in its heyday, rich and elegant; how it's meant to be seen.

Upon reaching their room, Roy closes the door behind them. They relieve their disguise, shedding them to the floor, donning their authenticity once more.

While removing his suit jacket, Roy asks, humor lacing his tone, "So, Riza, do you always point your gun at a man's jewels?"

"Do you always point a gun at a woman's chest, Roy?" she pokes back, lighthearted.

Roy smiles, smug and playful. "Hmm, wouldn't you like to know?" Walking past her, Roy procures the pitcher of water by the vanity, sloshing a brimful. He inquires, "What were you doing earlier?"

Discarding her jacket, Riza replies, "We had a surprise visit from Mrs Price during our game. It was a lucky coincidence, I suppose. She divulged some information about Mr Arnaud and how the hotel is providing him the office space behind the ballroom." Meeting Roy's attentive eyes, she adds, "I didn't find anything useful there."

Passing the glass of water to Riza, he says with a self-satisfied grin, "Well Miss Hawkeye, I explored the hotel and happened to stumble upon that door. I was surprised to find out it connects to the ballroom." Dipping his hand in his trouser pocket, Roy pilfers a small piece of paper. When he fans his fingers, a silver key burgeons from behind. "Mr Arnaud's room is number 136."

There's a glint of realization in her eyes, glowing with giddiness as though she has discovered a long lost hidden treasure. "Oh, nice work!" Riza sips the water, smiling pleasantly, propping the glass in her hand. "So you were the one that snatched the key. I almost changed my mind about Arnaud, thinking he's smarter than he lets on. That man's interviews were unintelligible at best, if you've ever heard it."

Chuckling, Roy asserts, "No, you've been right this whole time. That man is an idiot who leaves his room key lying around."

Taking a large swig of the liquid, Riza says, "Roy, enlighten me, will you?" Confusion is inscribed on his face as he listens. She pries, almost lecturing, "Why were you spying into the salon when you could've scoped out his floor? Check for guards? Or you could have used that time to gather information about tomorrow's event."

"Ahh- I just needed to check on something..." replies Roy in haste, eyes heavy with guilt.

With a coy smile, Riza approaches, waving the empty glass in front of him. "Are you sure you weren't checking up on me, Roy?"

Taking the glass from her hand, Roy puts it on the nightstand beside him. He pauses for a moment, studies her with a dubious look, but eventually returns a handsome smile, admitting, "Okay. And if I were?"

Her face morphs into a stern appearance. She retorts sharply, shoving an index finger in his chest, " _I knew it!_  How many times do I have to remind you that I can handle myself? I don't need you to constantly look over my shoulder!"

Shock taints his face, lips parting, eyes rounding at the unexpected reprimand. But in a flash, he composes himself, solemn and sincere, "I don't doubt you can take care of yourself, Riza. Not from the way your gun was pointing at me."

She raises her voice, "Then  _why_? It's- You being so protective is driving me mad!"

As if testing her tolerance, a smirk toys in the corner of his mouth. Roy responds, mischievous, teasing her, "Driving you mad with  _affection_ , you mean?"

His ill-timed joke sets in an irritable mood. Curtly, Riza counters, grunting, "Oh, now what I said is amusing to you! Tell me, Mr Mustang, do you  _always_  ridicule your women like this?"

In retaliation, Roy leans forward, a hot breath away. Her racing heart halts for a moment, anticipating a fragment of intimacy that never comes. He's overwhelmingly close, hovering over her face with his scowling brows, the margins knitted with annoyance. With firmness, he answers, " _No_ , only the stubborn, British one."

Shortly, before Riza can retort in kind, Roy sighs, lips pursed for a time. He slicks his hair back, speaking without an ounce of spite in his tone, "I couldn't stop thinking about what could've happened…" She looks away, up and past his cheeks. The way his shoulders sink paints defeat, illustrating a man who has given up trying to wrestle a stubborn mule. She can sense his eyes on her, piercing, intense. Roy adds, softly, his timbre wistful, "Is it wrong for me to worry about you?"

A mouthful of rebuttal is at the tip of her tongue. Her mind is telling her to spit it out, scold the man before her. But her voice refuses to obey, the words slipping back down her throat like a gob of oil. With a forceful strain, Riza only manages to spurt a one letter reply, "I…" She bites her lip, ceasing her speech altogether, when no other sound arrives to defend.

Her next mistake comes when she locks his gaze. In it, there's fondness, tenderness, drifting amidst the hint of frustration. She shivers, her skin tingling from the absurd notion of breaching the realm of professionalism. And yet, she finds it unbelievably difficult to avert her eyes, as though an unbreakable spell was cast upon her. Roy stares at her with such passion her mind  _begs_  her to crawl under a blanket. Her body betrays her. Instead, it relishes in the strangely sedative effect of his watch.

When the tension - the silence - becomes unbearable, Riza whirls her back to him, sudden and abrupt. Her face is burning - a deep, irksome red. She closes her eyes, as if doing so would magically erase the splashes of scarlet from her complexion. Wordlessly, she scurries towards the bathroom like a perturbed child. Swinging the door harder than intended, she finds reprieve in the loudness of the slam that momentarily masks the pounding of her heart. Grunting aloud, she drowns her heated skin in a handful of water, hurried and impatient, praying and hoping that she can wipe Roy's burdensome image from her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading! I plan on completing the next chapter on or around Christmas day, but if that doesn't happen, Merry Christmas!


	8. i remember every moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Happy New Year! I'm sorry for the delay; the holiday turned out to be more hectic than I thought. On another note, I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

**Los Angeles, July 9, 1948**

There is never enough time in the world, Roy thinks, not when the view before him shackles his feet to the ground, rendering him unmoving. Everything else is secondary as his gaze is tethered to the subtle rise and fall of his son's breathing. Listening to the rhythm, he submerges himself in the hypnotic tempo, the greedy intake of breath and the drawn out exhale, as though it is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.

Under the thin, summertime blanket, Elio curls on his side, his small face towards the door. The boy's shape is a ball, with his knees hugging his chest, short arms below his chin tucked in a guarding pose. In the darkness, the child's sleeping expression is peaceful, burdenless, his fair complexion softened as the pale moonlight drifts into the room through the sheer curtain.

Only when Roy feels a featherlight touch on his shoulder does he eventually flinch. He discovers Riza, her slender figure rid of her checkered, diner uniform; it is now wrapped in a silky gown as white as milk, the garment pressed close to her skin. Though her mouth is sealed shut, she suspends a stare that articulates so many words, an anticipating look for a conversation that should have taken place much sooner than tonight.

Momentarily, he muses whether to ask her for five more minutes, so he can revel in the simple joy of watching his son just a little bit longer. But at the realization of midnight approaching, he relents, squaring the metal hinge into its groove until it clicks with a painstaking quietness.

They barely trespass into the living room when Riza's voice, exhausted yet hospitable, disturbs the shuffling of feet. "Tea?"

The last thing Roy wants is to work her endlessly after a long day at the diner. With a kind reply, he declines gratefully, choosing instead to lead Riza to the unoccupied sofa by the windowsill.

As she treads her way, with Roy following closely behind, her graceful hand stalks the clip bunching her hair. When she releases the clasp, a waterfall of golden tresses spills down her shoulders, draping loose and free against her covered back. A trace of lavender permeates. Subtle. Distinct. Just enough to flood his head with memories of the past.

She joins him on the sofa, perching beside him with the mindfulness of an estranged lover, a stretchful of air in between. He begins with a lighthearted question. Her day at the restaurant, and if she had a better day than he did. In return, she asks him about his day, of Elio and the zoo, which he describes in full details without sparing a single account of their son's cleverness.

Amiability weaves in and out as the minutes fly, but all is not without awkwardness, not without the restrained pauses filling in the space of their conversation.

When the day's tale finally runs dry, everything is quiet but the humming lamp. For a moment, it allows Roy some room to contemplate, to replay the years devoid of Riza and his son.

Suddenly, Roy senses a deep plummet in his chest, his heart dropping into his stomach like a sinking ship. The edges of his jaw tighten, and he takes a large gulp, conjuring up an encouraging thought to mask the overwhelming fear of losing them again. As he does so, the uppermost button on his shirt feels constricting, smothering the hollow of his throat. In his struggle, he unfastens the round plastic from its grasp, freeing his passage with a mild tug from left to right.

Roy heaves a relieved breath and narrates his last London-based mission, the one that should have taken place with Riza alongside him, "The full operation lasted longer than they originally thought, that last one. It took years to complete."

Her fingers bundle into a ball, her trimmed nails rolling a hasty wave across the back of her hand. "The one after Atlas, you mean?"

"Right." Roy nods. "You've heard of George Wood, yes? The German diplomat? I had the honor of working with him. Talented agent, and I have plenty of respect for someone like him. He smuggled so many documents, it was unbelievable. His country must hate him."

She gives a small smile when she speaks, "Yes, I heard about him from a friend. SEO sure made a mistake for dismissing him."

He brings a hand up, his restless fingers slipping along his raven locks, brushing its length in a hurried motion. "Yeah, they sure did. Glad we had some faith in him. Otherwise, I don't know where we'd be right now. The war probably wouldn't have ended as it did."

"Was it difficult?"

"Deciphering some of the scientific notes was the longest and most difficult task at the time. Then they moved me to the field, mostly in London... Though I have to say, everything happened so fast I don't remember much of the little details. The next thing I know, the war had ended," he jokes, a weak laughter, "Maybe I hit my head really hard and had everything erased from memory."

Her speech ascends with a worried note, unstoppable as it unearths a hidden anxiety. "You weren't hurt during any of them… were you? I remember hearing about the buzz bomb hitting London..."

His mouth shapes into a grin. "Fortunately, I came out completely unscathed. After what happened during our mission, I've made sure nothing else touched  _this_ ," replies Roy, his fingers fanned out, circling over his abdomen. His grin turns devilish, eliciting a mischievous cackle between a row of white teeth. "Why? Were you worried?"

Abruptly, Riza explains, her words faltering, "Well, I'm- I'm just wondering. It's tough not to think of the worst when things like that happen..." But as she speaks, Roy notices her complexion stain a splash of pink, growing redder before his eyes.

Before Roy can remark further, Riza rises up to tidy Elio's reading clutter, spread across the coffee table. Her voice interrupts, quick and sobering, "So did they partner you up with someone else? Other than George Wood, that is."

Roy orients his body towards her, trailing as a compass. From this angle, with her back facing him, her ruffled expression is obscured, immune from any chance of his teasing. As his smile wanes, Roy collects himself, answering with a sincere disposition, "No, it was solo operations since... which was something I had explicitly requested."

A faint shuffle of books shifts in the air, arranged into a short stack of colorful tower. Riza stands upright, twisting to face him with a sidelong glance. "I see. It's worrisome to have no one watching your back, isn't it?"

Chuckling mildly, Roy affirms, his gaze bound to her small movements, "No, it's quite the opposite actually. I don't have to worry about anyone getting hurt." His fingers slide into a prayer pose, elbows digging into his knees. With watchful eyes tailing her as she rounds the table, he finds her expression, only now within sight. "Besides, it allowed me some free time to look for you in between assignments."

At his answer, she hardens, motionless, idle. When she catches his expecting gaze, the red and green books in her hand inch onto the precipice of the table, threatening to fall. There's a shade of guilt in her eyes, in the way she quickly averts them from him. In her vigilance, she returns to the task at hand, steering away her discomfort, "So are they sending you on another mission?"

Though a compound of emotions dawns at her elusiveness, Roy doesn't waver, returning an answer with a calmness, unresentful, "I have to turn in some reports before they send me on the next one. I haven't yet accepted, but the Assistant Director briefly discussed the nuclear power of the Soviet and asked for my assistance. They sound desperate by the look of things."

Her steps are light as a ghost when she steps away to tuck the books into the wall. Without a single peek, Riza states, nonchalant, a slight rise to her volume as the distance between them widens, "Considering what I know about you, you'll accept this mission without questions. Would you agree with my assessment, Mr Mustang?"

Now, with half of her body shielded by the sharp corners of the wall, a strong sense of dread washes over him. She's mere paces away, but her lack of presence agitates him.

He takes long strides towards her, brisk and rushed. Upon reaching her, he plants jittery hands on her arms, twirling the woman to face him. With panic-stricken tone, he asks, a glint of fear in his eyes, "If I accept the mission, you  _will_  be here when I return, won't you?"

But she only stares, a thin sliver around the seams of her mouth. She employs an unreadable expression, one that sends Roy's heart to a race, faster each second.

When she's finally composed herself, her expression softens, one hand twining into his hair. Brushing the mess carefully, she curls a small smile, focusing on the area around her fingers, eluding his gaze, "When I asked Elio how his day was, he said he had a lot of fun. Thank you for taking him to the zoo." Chuckling at Roy's jutting strands, she smooths them against his head, a gentle pat downward. "And last night, after the day at the park, Elio mentioned to me that you were curious about some people visiting the diner. Would you like me to tell you who they are?"

Under her sedative touches, Roy quickly neglects his inquiry; all momentarily forgotten. His skin melts beneath her warmth, and for a short second, he doesn't remember how to breathe. She ventures her hand to his cheek, each roll of her gesture smoothing the tense lines on his face. When her gaze drifts into his, only then he realizes she's awaiting his answer.

Roy blurts out, "Sorry, who do you mean?"

She hums between her smile, evoking a pleasant mirth. "I'm referring to the men. One with brown hair, another with gray hair, and a big man; that's how Elio described them."

"So, who are they?" Roy asks, uncaring, too preoccupied in the softness of her strokes.

Trailing her hand down to his buttons, she toys with them, tracing slow circles. She leans against the sturdy bookshelf, built into the wall. "The big man is Alex Armstrong. Do you remember Maes? Alex works directly under him. I went on a mission with the man once. He's a good friend from the company."

"Of course. Maes. We've become friends. I stayed with him and his wife Gracia in between missions. And the other two?"

Escaping the confines of the shadowy hallway, she stalks the living room, her quiet feet treading the floor. "The one with the brown hair is Claudio Rico."

Roy follows, a close step behind her. "And Claudio is...?"

"He comes by to see me sometimes," says Riza nonchalantly, insignificantly.

Roy asks, a dash of bitterness to his timbre, "As in, you're seeing this man?"

Riza doesn't sit, hovering over the cushion with a disagreeable expression, correcting, "Oh no no, I'm not. Sometimes the University asks for my help with their language program. He's part of the faculty and I've had to interact with him on several occasions."

He fails to stifle his clambering jealousy. "But Claudio brings you flowers."

"…Did Elio tell you that?" Riza asks, incredulous.

"Yes."

Her hand waves him off, refusing to acknowledge his suspicion, "Well, Claudio is a kind man. Flowers as thanks for helping him. Besides, he's much too young for me."

Roy grits his teeth, attempting to stop a train of accusations at the tip of his tongue. Instead, they collide into the air faster than anticipated. "Riza, I have a pretty damn good feeling his intention is much deeper than that.  _Much_  deeper."

"Well, you have nothing to worry about," she amends, sharp and final.

He relents, sighing in frustration. "Fine. And the gray haired man?"

"I've banned him from the diner."

At this, Roy's voice booms, disturbed and concerned, matching the fire in his eyes, "What?! What happened?"

Soothingly, she plants both of her hands on his chest, taming him with a consoling rub, "His name's Frank Archer, and he doesn't have gray hair. He has dark hair actually, but he made me so mad one time I threw flour all over it. That's why Elio refers to him as the gray haired man. He's not exactly the gentlest of men, but he's harmless."

Roy's fists clench beside him, ready to erupt into a punch. He scoffs, furious, "You know I can get rid of him if you ask me to, Riza."

Her hands land on his collar. With a firm tug, she snaps him into sensibility. "Roy, that is  _not_  necessary. I can take care of him if he ever shows up again."

He retorts, "That's what you always say, but it's okay to rely on others sometimes, Riza. It won't hurt anyone."

Harsh lines etch on her forehead, her nose wrinkling with displeasure. "Why is it that you always insist that I need protection?"

He looks at her, adamant. "Because. You know why."

She meets his stern eyes with a glare, scolding, "Well hurry it up, finish your sentence!"

His moist palms rub frantically against his fingers. But as he draws in a breath, he shakes off anger at the release. Calmly now, with placcid arms and unclenched fists, Roy says, "Because I hate seeing you in distress. I hate hearing about this man doing whatever it was that he did to make you angry. And-" he pauses, allowing an instant of quietness to interfere. Summoning courage, Roy declares, his voice firm with sincerity, "I care about you and I want to be with you."

Riza is mute with parting lips, but there is not a hint of shock on her face. In it, Roy only sees fear, laced with tint of disappointment. When she swallows, the phlegm is thick and impeding, a loud swell of fluid descending down her throat. Her blinking is languid, evading, looking up towards the sky. Then, she closes her eyes and holds her world black, as if doing so would remove the gravity out of his speech.

Roy's hand reaches for her, but in a swift motion, she falters backward. His lingering arm, hanging awkwardly, only manages to seize a semblance of her warmth. He takes a step forward, but once more, she eludes his gesture. In desperation, he begs, "Riza, please..."

When she speaks, her voice is raspy, irritated, "Why are you telling me this now, Roy? Why now?" Her chest pumps faster, harder, a ragged breathing on display. Underneath her severe gaze, her hands shake, wavering. "How am I supposed to move on now with you telling me this?"

A bout of painful sensations pierces him. On his chest, in the back of his head, throbbing and stabbing, numbing his senses. In a brief moment of lucidity, he wonders if his mind's playing a trick, distorting her speech into a disarray of words, ones he can't fully comprehend. He drops onto the sofa in defeat, the lines on his shoulders quivering. "Is that what you want, Riza? You want to move on? If that's what you want, I'll respect that."

Silence overtakes, buzzing with uncertainty. Surrounding them, there is only the dull sound of her tattered breathing, his deafening muteness.

Riza is the first to break the silence. Descending onto the coffee table, she faces Roy. With a self-deprecating scoff, she says, "I couldn't do it."

He looks up, finding her.

"I tried, you know," she adds, quiet and thoughtful, "To forget about you."

She continues, "But it's a lot harder than I thought. And you're right about Claudio; he asked me out. I agreed once, but I haven't gone on more since then and I don't plan to." Then she chuckles, disbelief threaded in her words, "When I look at Elio, all I see is you. Your hair, your smile, your face. When he sings in the bathroom, all I hear is you and your  _god-awful_  singing voice. And when I see that he loves to read… Well, I realize I don't have the right to be mad at you, not after what happened. But oh, there are times when I wish I could!"

Immediately, Roy lunges for her. Crushing the meager gap, his arms desperately wrap around her, clinging around her lithe body as though she might disappear otherwise. He croaks, full of regret, "I'm sorry, Riza. I'm  _so_  sorry."

A thin smile curls in the crook of his neck, her hot breath trembling against his skin. "There's nothing to forgive, Roy. It was my fault all the same. I'm sorry, too."

Breathlessly, Riza captures his face. She caresses it with adoration, a soft and gentle circle with the pad of her thumb. Dragging the tips of her fingers on his skin, she studies his defined jawline, the sharp contour, the short stubble alongside it. With a light trace from the crown of his cheekbones, she finds the light dusting of sunspots across the bridge of his nose.

They take the motion in turns. Gently, he catches her hand, wallowing it in warmth, leaving a trail of affection as he strokes it slowly. He traces for her marks, finding the calluses, memorizing the rough bumps and the hard edges. Turning her wrist around slowly, he learns of the blue-green lines of her veins, buried beneath fair skin. And carefully, as though fragile, he brings her palm against his lips, pressing a soft kiss. He pleads, imploring, "Please,  _please_  don't ever run out on me again, Riza."

Looking at Roy with fondness, her mouth curves into a smile, sweet and endearing.

Riza remains wordless. But, with a newfound hope, an excited grin blooms on Roy's face. The night in which he dreamed of seeing Riza and his son comes alive. In the frosty city, within the dome of a militaristic bunker, where he should have been drowning himself in work, he wished for a speedy end to his mission. The radio atop the old, dusty shelf crackled with static, more often than not announcing a promising progress yet without news of the war's conclusion. Holding onto the collective thoughts of her and the son he hadn't met, Roy soldiered on, day after day, one assignment at a time. Until...

Now that she's here, eagerness soars in his tone, "When I come back from my mission, we'll move into a bigger place. We can buy a house, white picket fence with a big yard for Elio to play in. And you've always liked dogs, right? We can get a dog. And we'll get a car, too. When time permits, we can visit San Francisco, and you and Elio can finally meet Aunt Chris. It shouldn't take me longer than a few months in the Soviet-"

At his words, she freezes, solid as iceberg. Her demeanor turns solemn. She releases her hand from his grip. In a cold timbre, harsh with reality, she says, "No, Roy. That is  _not_  what I want for Elio. You should be  _here_  with him. You've already missed five years of his life. What if you don't return from your mission? What do I tell Elio then? It's not fair for him, and you know precisely  _why_  I can't have that. You must understand."

From across the hallway, Elio trudges, his steps dragging with drowsiness. "Mommy?"

The child's hair is a bed of sprouting strands, sticking out in disorder. The back of his hand finds a sleepy eye, itchy from slumber, and he rubs at it consistently.

Riza stumbles to her son, a rushed gait, until she arranges herself before him, calm and presentable. She lowers herself, on her knees. With kindness, she asks, "Why are you up, Elio? It's very late."

"What are you doing, mommy?" the boy asks, his voice hoarse from the dryness in his throat.

Riza smiles, obliging, "Mummy's just talking to Roy, darling."

Elio mutters, begging under sleepy eyes, "I can't sleep. Can I sleep with you, please?"

As the scene unravels before him, the vision from Roy's dream dwindles, until it fades into the night. At the sight of Elio, he remembers. He remembers Riza's confession in the dark, word by word, the tremble in her breaths, the secret shared between the sheets. He is a fool for letting his imagination run away as far as it had, for forgetting about her past.

His body grows cold with plight as he considers her wish. It is no longer about him and her, but now of Elio, the son who deserves more than his father can give.

"Let's go to bed, alright? Mummy will sleep with you." With an ushering hand, she guides the boy into her room, at the end of the dim corner of the hallway. Out of the muted, yellow light, the two figures, tall and short, exit. Momentarily, Riza turns around, meeting him with a wistful smile on her face. She says, a finality to their conversation, "Goodnight, Roy."

"Goodnight, Riza," he replies, quietly.


	9. no god's gonna save us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Happy Thursday! This chapter is longer than usual, but I hope you enjoy :)

**Paris, October 9, 1942**

The Frenchman is quite irksome. With an aura full of self-importance (and a seemingly permanent obstruction of his nasal cavity whenever he speaks), the man rambles on and on of his accomplishments. To those with a short temper, his voice alone would surely provoke a swing of the fist, flying towards the center of his face, landing directly on his nose. Under a different circumstance, Roy would undoubtedly entertain this idea. Except tonight, this man is an important piece of the puzzle, possessing valuable information that renders the man untouchable.

"You know Goebbels himself commissioned this book. And his right hand man gave me the one and only tour of the new plant. Someone from Norsk Hydro even came out and talked at length about the production. Apparently the man stayed up there for a full week. I don't know how he did it, because the weather wasn't very pleasant. I bundled up in layers and it was still so damn cold! And I was only there for a few days," exclaims Mr Arnaud. The champagne in his hand has earned the appearance of an apple juice, its golden sparkle flattened by the infinite amount of adoration the man has for himself.

An hour has come and gone, but the man only heaves yet another lungful of air for what seems to be another nauseating round of self-praise. Below the dimly lit chandelier, Roy's focus now rests on his partner.

Riza Hawkeye's neatly twined  _chignon_ adorns her face, with several golden strands straying out of its curl, telling of the time lost. Nevertheless, Roy finds the imperfection oddly alluring, parting his lips unintentionally in a non-sensible manner. His sight arrives at the tiny, barely there dimple as she smiles, failing to disappear as the Frenchman spits a lengthy train of admiration for his own novel. Instead of listening to his important subject, Roy's hearing joins in the solidarity and attunes to Riza's German accent, noticing the subtle rising in intonation before Riza showers the space with a string of agreeable words.

There is nothing particularly striking about these little details. On its own, they are commonplace features easily found in another woman. But Roy finds it nearly impossible to avert his eyes from her, as though he was the same starstruck boy of twelve, stunned by the beauty of cinema actress Lillian Gish.

Privately, Roy admits to himself, after denying it for a time, that Riza may have sparked something other than mere professional interest. Something not quite forbidden but deeply frowned upon in their occupation. He has heard enough stories to last a lifetime, of relationships that bloomed in the field, going south in the worst possible way.

Smiling pleasantly, Riza remarks, "Oh, you must be exaggerating! It can't be as cold as Antarctica." She touches the champagne flute to her rosy lips, leaving a pink, sensual mark around the rim.

"Trust me, my dear. I've never been anywhere else colder. But even then, I made sure to take notes of the little details. The way the ele… eclectic cells-"

Roy steps in, his timbre correcting yet helpful, "The electrolysis cells."

With a dismissive tone, Mr Arnaud mumbles, "Right, right. Anyhow, the way the electrolysis cells resemble those sturdy Parthenon pillars only reminded me of how mighty Germany has become under the Führer. In particular, I wanted to describe how majestic the building looked in the snow. To show my affinity for natural beauty, something like that. Now, with so much scientific details my book contains, it should qualify as a scholarly article rather than a mere reading pleasure. Please make a note of that."

The Frenchman adds, an afterthought, "Oh, and Miss Hammersmark, can I receive some assurance that all this information I'm providing will translate into one glowing article on your science publication? Remember to spell my name correctly, too. I will pay attention to every little detail."

"Certainly, Mr Arnaud," Riza replies with a convincing smile. "Lastly, could you tell us where this place is? For the purpose of the article, of course."

Twirling his enormous mustache, the author collects his thoughts, owl-like eyes briefly sewn to the checkered marble floor. Looking up at Riza, he says, a pitiful tone, "Ahh I wish I could tell you, Miss Hammersmark, but it's all part of the agreement with the  _Propagandaministerium_. It has got to be kept a secret, you see."

"That is perfectly understandable, Mr Arnaud. But surely, you can at least give us a little bit more geography. At this moment, Miss Hammersmark's article will only say, 'Germany's greatness is built atop a heavy blanket of snow'," Roy chimes in, chuckling affably while sipping a taste of the bubbly liquid.

"Well Mr Hayakawa, it doesn't matter where this place is. You have me, and I can describe with eidetic memory all elements of the exterior  _and_  the interior! You have my contact information. Feel free to give my manager a ring!" Mr Arnaud boasts, erupting laughter.

The short, rotund author then circles back to a conversation about his writing, "Have I already told you how Werner insisted that my writing for the last book is the most wonderful thing he has ever read? He told me this one will be even more popular, especially with the Ministry publishing it! Ha! And I have to say that I fully agree with him. This book doesn't only show Germany's strength but also the plans  _der Führer_  has in store for this great country. I can tell you all about my writing process if you'd like."

As even-tempered as Roy is, a man can only consume so much vainglory. There has been no movement in their mission tonight; nothing significant, only seductive teases of the heavy water location that grow into another tale of the man's elitist affair.

Roy winds a gentle arm around Riza's waist; it is most necessary to catch her attention, he convinces himself. She stiffens under his touch, surprised. The American agent apologizes, "I'm sorry to interrupt Mr Arnaud, but if you'll excuse me, I caught a glimpse of an old friend and want to say hello before he leaves. Teresa, will you keep Mr Arnaud company?"

Riza performs a quick comb of Roy's expression, searching, finding. Turning to Mr Arnaud, Riza contrives an attractive giggle before placing a congenial hand on the man's arm. "Of course. It will be my pleasure," she says.

Yet, as if on a timer, Henry Price marches into the scene with an aura of urgency. The earthy aroma of his cigar drifts heavy and thick in between the man's teeth, the fat roll of tobacco whisked by his own hasty fingers as he whispers some staggering news into the Frenchman's ears.

Mr Arnaud nods incessantly and speaks some instructive words to Mr Price that Roy can't even begin to comprehend. From the way the Frenchman's saliva impales Henry's face, whatever this news is, it must be rather essential. Should he be concerned? Should  _they_  be concerned, Roy deliberates.

Before Mr Price takes the man by the elbow and leads him away, Mr Arnaud twists his head to the two agents, bidding his farewell, "Unfortunately, I have to greet several important guests." To Riza, he says, "Don't forget about my dazzling article, Miss Hammersmark." To Roy, he adds, "Mr Hayakawa, enjoy the party."

The agents convene with a mute stare, a tacit understanding to veer their nightly agenda to Room 136, Mr Arnaud's suite. They procure an unassuming departure, as a couple meandering about the party until they reach the edge of the ballroom.

Ill-timed, a familiar, gray-haired woman approaches. Emma Price wears a radiant smile on her face, the wideness of it resembling the mounting layers of pearl necklaces above her compactly pressed chest. Despite the dense talc powder and the obscure black mesh covering her face, Roy can read trouble looming on the horizon; it is written all over her gait, her demeanor.

Emma asks, her oversized cigarette holder assembled between white gloved fingers, "Oh Teresa, you're leaving already?"

"Hello, Emma." Riza smiles, charmingly. "No, I'm just going to the ladies' room."

Emma equips herself beside Roy. With mischief about her face, she links a possessive curl around his arm. To Teresa, she says, stroking Roy's bicep with a covetous hand, to stir jealousy, "Then you won't mind if I borrow Mr Hayakawa here for a little bit, won't you?"

"Please," says Riza. There's no other emotions displayed beside her amiability. "Go right ahead."

But with Roy at Emma's disposal, the agents are presented a new challenge. Roy is in possession of the silver key bearing the number 136. And every intention has been set on scouring the author's room for a flash of that map, or anything that can further their assignment.

Like the veteran agent that she is, Riza manages a clever performance, impulsive, all concocted within the measure of a heartbeat. Sensationally, Riza wraps her arms around Roy's free one. Then, she sneaks in a peck, swift and fleeting. She kisses the corner of Roy's mouth just beside his lips, all the while sliding a furtive hand into his trouser pocket, feeling for a cold metal object.

Everything is only a ruse meant to distract the older British woman from ascertaining Riza's true intention. And yet, everything about it feels significant. Decidedly, the warmth and the softness of her lips linger for much longer than the interval of the kiss itself. From beneath his rib cage, Roy can feel his heart pumping faster, quicker, fluttering against his skin. His stomach does a flip, and then again, his cheeks heating. He ponders, in a fleeting moment, if he should read more into her gesture.  _A desire or a necessity?_   _Should he care?_

He looks at Riza, tonight's purpose shortly forgotten.

"I'll be right back," she whispers, a reassurance, a promise of her safe return.

Once Riza is out of sight, Emma remarks with a scoff, "Well, that was a nice parting gift. But letting her out of your sight for too long may not be the best idea, Roy.  _Especially_  after last night."

Roy stares at the woman. "What about last night?"

Emma faces him, standing front and center, with her arms crossed below her chest. The cigarette holder juts out of her tangled limbs, the smoke coiling into the air. She starts to speak in a hushed tone, her mouth rounding, leaning towards Roy with the ease of an old friend. "You'd be surprised to hear, Roy, but I caught her with Private Wegener last night!"

Unsure of how to reply, Roy stands unruffled and mute, though not without a sort of annoyance boiling inside by the woman's meddling.

"Aren't you worried, Roy? She's with another man!" From the way her features stretch, horrified and perturbed, Roy wonders how much of it is stellar acting and how much is genuine. A gossip factory at its finest.

"I'm sure nothing happened." Roy replies, unyielding as a rock. "Teresa's friendly, but she doesn't mean any harm by it."

Emma presses, attempting to incite something, anything, out of the man, "You weren't there, Roy. The Private's hand was all over her thigh! It was obscene! Gillflirt or not, she shouldn't be doing that when you're only a few doors down. I'm only telling you this because I believe  _you_  deserve better."

Finally, Roy frowns, brows knitting disapprovingly. "Of course, Emma. I'll consider your words."

Emma smiles, pleased.

The fabrication of his brooding expression seems to appease the woman. Though, he feels that it is merited. While Riza hasn't mentioned a word about the man touching her, Roy is unable to quell the image from his mind. Enveloped by excessive worry, a strong desire to confront the Private with a punch on the face, Roy slips his clenching fist into his pocket, digging indignant nails into the pillow of his palm.

"Just make sure she doesn't stray to the first floor. That's where many of the officers and soldiers stay. They are probably lonely, and a German woman like Teresa might just remind them of home. If you're not careful, you might end up leaving Paris without her altogether," says Emma with the smuggest smile on her yet, brewing another storm with her words.

His body chills at the knowledge. "Wait, what did you say?"  _Room 136 is on the first floor_ , he tells himself.

"You might just end up leaving Paris without her," Emma repeats.

He can only picture Riza braving a slew of Luftwaffe soldiers with solely her German proficiency on hand, a small pistol screwed on her thigh. A pretty face that turns heads, and a dress too enticing around her blessed curves; it is a scene much too frightening to let happen. He supplies quickly, "Thanks for the warning, Mrs Price. And if you'll pardon me, I need to take care of something."

In the background, Roy can hear Mrs Price's confused timbre calling out to him, loud and clear. With every step, her voice promptly fades, blending with the melodious string orchestra and the medley of idle chatter, until he can no longer distinguish one from another. The agent ventures further, towards Room 136, with the hustle of a fleeing thief, body slipping erratically in between the vacant outlines of mingling guests.

Upon reaching his destination, Roy comes to an abrupt halt. With a half hour until the curfew kicks in, the hallway is illuminated as a department store, the hotel taking full advantage of the gift of light. When the thirty minutes is up, everything will be an ocean of black.

" _Your room key, mein Herr,"_ the roaming guards demand in the foreseeable distance. A brief salute, and the guest is granted passage. " _Ich danke Ihnen,_ " one of the guard says.

In all of its peculiarity, being here, with no plans at hand, reels his mind to the handbook sitting dusty inside his office drawer. Office of Strategic Services Rule #7:  _Advocate caution and avoid haste which might result in difficulties later on_.

He should have swept the floor for guards, Roy concedes, just as Riza had advised last night. Hell, he should have scoured earlier this evening rather than watching her get ready, zipping the damned stunning dress the length of her spine. Regrets aside, if his partner were to learn his honest-to-God reason as to why he is standing at the entrance of a guarded hallway, unprepared, scrambling for a way out, his own swift death will be at her enraged hands.

Roy retraces a step back. But as he spins the other direction, a bellow of order echoes in the corridor. "You there, halt!"

Swallowing thickly, Roy complies, facing the marching footsteps. He composes his appearance, calm, oblivious. "Yes?"

"You have key?" the younger, brown haired guard asks, his tone flat and unsuspecting.

"I do." Roy sinks his hands inside both trouser pockets, squirming his fingers from the nothingness within.

The older guard, whose expression is much more wary, thickened by years of experience, charges, "You don't have key?"

"It's in here somewhere…" Roy hums, a look of wonder, brows sharp and perplexed. Yet, Roy shows no signs of nervousness, concealing the formation of cold sweat on his back and palms by replying nonchalantly, "I must have misplaced it at the party. I will be right back."

"Wait. Show us your identification," the older guard instructs, his voice swelling with mistrust.

Producing a red booklet, Roy says, "Here's my passport."

Observing the agent closely, the German guard snatches his passport with skepticism, a pair of blue eyes narrowing into a thin line.

What should have been a quick scan of Roy's name takes much longer than anticipated. While Roy is certain the travel document is flawless, it does not stop his heart rate from spiking. Roy's hands are now as frigid as ice, watching the man flips the book page by page, fishing for anything suspicious.

"You're French," one of them says.

" _Oui._ Does anyone here speak French? _Est-ce qu'il y a quelqu'un qui parle Français?_ " Roy asks, pretending. The guards give him a sidelong glance before poring over the passport once more. Roy continues, sounding faultlessly untroubled despite the loudening pulse in his neck, " _Nique ta mère._ " Fuck your mother. " _Non?_ "

"Be quiet, sir."

"Gentlemen, he's with me," a female voice interrupts in German, inviting the guards to turn around. Riza draws near, strutting with confidence, an appealing smile scouting her lips as she takes her steps. In her hand is a silver key, the solution to their predicament.

At the sight of his rescuer, Roy sighs with relief, silent and ever so thankful. He reminds himself, should they make it out alive tonight, to kiss her squarely on the mouth as a token of gratitude.

* * *

 

The room is blacker than the night. By design, all the suites are a massive cave of prearranged furniture and potted plants, with one too many large chairs roosting purposeless, only getting in the way of their search. There is a strong inclination to switch on the light, fill the room with a bright, yellow glare. But with the guards roaming outside, the large windows signaling the occupancy inside, she understands how particularly unwise for them to do just that.

Riza is sure she will come out of this assignment with more scratches and bruises, hissing mildly each time she bumps into yet another hard, dull object. Swearing mentally, she laments over the idea of handing her lighter to Roy, praying the man will find something sooner than later. The only reprieve for her is the occasional stream of white light from the headlight of a car through the bedroom balcony. If only they would come more often.

But with the denseness of the object in her hand, the weight and the size, it must be something useful. And her presumption is proven to be true when a car passes by, shining a glimmer of hope across the page of her choosing.

With the door ajar, Riza calls out to Roy, halfway between a whisper and a cry, "Roy! Come here!"

From beyond the walls, Riza hears a rapid stomping of feet, a slight screech of furnishings followed by a muffled "ouch."

Roy enters, a shadowy outline in the dark.

Even as their vision adjusts, Riza can hardly make out the white of his eyes and teeth. The only indication the man is beside her is his warm body, his hot breath hitting the bareness of her neck from behind.

Sarcastically, she says, "I see you're making good use of the lighter I gave you."

"Sorry." Flicking it on, Roy inquires, hovering the blue-yellow glow over the thick, rectangular journal in her hand, "What's that? His diary?"

"I was able to catch a glimpse of his notes when a car passes through. Look here," Riza points, index finger underlining a German name. "Remember Arnaud said Goebbel's right hand man gave him a tour of the plant? That's his name, Werner Naumann. And this drawing looks like the building he described."

"Okay? And what does this tell us?"

"This tells us absolutely nothing. But," she pauses for effect, "there's an address here at the bottom of the page. Tiny scrawls. It's a French address, but it might give us more insight about the location of the plant." Ripping the page out of the book, she hands it to Roy, which he slips into his suit pocket.

Riza can hear Roy's voice brim with energy, "Let's get this address to Maes and-"

Riza shushes curtly, slicing through his words by sealing a brisk finger over his mouth. Whispering, she asks, vigilant, "Do you hear that?"

The rhythmic clop of boots against wooden floor is faint, occurring from somewhere outside, by the corridor. But the footfalls are clearly approaching, encroaching, until it comes to a full stop. A rattling sound arrives at the door, a key inserted, wriggling and twisting against the cylinder lock.

Quick on his feet, Roy pulls Riza by the arm, one speedy hand opening the closet door to reveal a rainbow of attire, enough to last a month within the petite confinement. Dragging her inside, he cloaks her amongst the garments, her back plastered against the inner wall.

He joins her, slipping in between a pale orange-ish suit and what seems to be a white or light gray trench coat. Carefully, Roy stands before her, enclosing her figure with his body. He creates just enough distance so their chests are scarcely touching. Tacking his hands on the wall, Riza can sense Roy's presence, a silhouette of protection, towering over her distressed pulse.

Below the closet door, spikes of harsh light pours in. Mr Arnaud's distinct voice booms, discernible even with the barrier of brick surrounding them. "Go find the spare key! It must be here somewhere. I have a party to attend to. Report to me when you've found it."

When the sound of boots invade the bedroom, Riza feels Roy shift closer, his face hiding in the curve of her neck. His body envelopes her, taut with anxiety or tension. She is unable to conceive whose racing heart is whose as their chests collide.

From behind the door she listens, tuning, attentive. As her hearing becomes more acute, she recognizes the exchange to be in German, one of the two guards clearing his way to the living area while he tells the other to linger.

" _What a stupid, fat man_ ," the guard mutters in German, spite in his tone. The quick murmur of drawers opening and shutting, paper rustling, metals jingling, cram the room to the ceiling.

She can only pray the guards leave at the speed of light. The confines of the closet is too jailing. That, and Roy's embrace is starting to dwell on her skin, warm and comfortable. The hard muscle on his abdomen tensed against her own, she can feel it. Breathing in the hazy scent of his aftershave, a hint of fresh cut wood and a note of vanilla, Riza shudders.  _What in the bloody hell am I doing?_  But she does it again, instinctive, admittedly besotted by his fragrance. Only then, after a time, does she sense a rising uneasiness at how much she enjoys this intimacy, borne out of convenience.

" _Hey Ulrich, look at this._ " The voice is distant. The other guard.

The dawdling guard exits, marked by his quick, dull stomping against the carpeted bedroom.

A series of jeering laughter spews out of the living room.

" _No wonder he never takes his wife with him. She looks like a fucking horse._ "

" _He isn't that much of a looker himself. He looks like an egg._ "

" _Are you sure he's married? She could be his mother. That face is at least a hundred years old._ "

"What are they saying?" Roy asks quietly, curious, the vapor of his breath seeping through the thin, silky material of her coral dress, scorching her shoulder.

"They're making fun of Mr Arnaud and his wife… or mother," Riza answers, chuckling lightly, her lips grazing the column of his neck. The pulse there is quickening, consistently so. Perhaps he is as nervous as she is, in the middle of this danger.

"How do you mistaken a wife for a mother… or a mother for a wife…" he snickers softly, resting his forehead on her quivering shoulder, the ripple of his laughter of which she can feel reverberate through her limbs.

" _What else is that man hiding in here? Should we raid his bedroom and see what we can find?_ " the guard jests, the sound of his boots closing in.

" _Maybe he hides his wife-mother in the closet!_ " the other mocks, ridiculing with a half-hearted chortle.

"Oh, bugger!" Riza whispers, her tone alarming. One hand automatically scuffles with the slit of her dress, seeking the tiny pistol attached to her thigh. Her hand is poised over the weapon, the tips of her fingers numbed with jitters.

"What? What?" Roy inquires, worried, disturbed.

"We need to jump them if they open the closet door. These sons of bitches weren't taught not to invade other people's privacy."

"Ahh damn. And here I was thinking we could walk out of here safe and sound," he mutters, grumbling.

Blindly, Riza pats around for a scarf, or a long stretch of fabric, anything that can subdue the guard without the ringing of gunshots. They must attempt to be as quiet as possible, preventing other soldiers from swarming in, overwhelming them.

Locating a heap of ties, she chooses at random and slides a couple sturdy ones out of their spherical hanger, proffering one to Roy, which he takes and stuffs into his pocket with reluctance. "Get ready. Use the pistol as last resort," she warns. In the shadow, she'd like to think she sees a nod from the man.

At long last one of the guards tugs the closet door open, unassuming, unexpecting. His fellow soldier a scant distance behind him.

Roy is the first to leap, hardened fist sailing towards the man's cheek, square in the jaw, intensified by the thrusting of his hips. The guard is a large man, young and stocky, intimidating to a fault. The man stumbles, swaying backwards. Within the small window of chance, Roy lands another punch, straight on the man's beaky nose.

A painful crack resounds, with a surprised shriek tailing as the man stumbles to the ground, eyes closed from the shock. "Ahhh!"

Hurriedly, Roy wraps a firm hand over the guard's mouth. "You're a screamer, aren't you?"

Extracting the tie from his pocket, Roy packs the tweed fabric into the man's mouth, smothering any loud noises that could have escaped. The agent's other hand snakes around the guard's neck, powerful legs clamping the man down by the torso. Roy bends his elbow, trying to put the man in a chokehold.

The other guard, who seems to be the older one of the two, is wordless, expression thoroughly flabbergasted at the impromptu assault.

"At least this one isn't," Riza says, smirking. She springs from behind Roy with a stretched out fabric in her hand. The tie is coiled around her hands, and she jumps, propelling her body towards the man. Her body weight, all of her blood and bones, plunges the guard onto the bed, which squeaks ear-splittingly as the spring recoils, bouncing upward and undulating the mattress.

As Riza straddles the blue-eyed guard, she recalls her sparring partner, her best friend, who has been feeling a lot less like herself in more recent time, mournful and heartbroken. Rebecca would say, "Riza, keep your opponent flat on the mat."

Riza struggles with the man's flailing hand, landing sporadic punches left and right, aimless, compulsive. "Keep close body contact," her brunette friend would say. "Lastly, don't be lazy and keep up with your training." It has been a good few months since Riza last trains. But even so, Riza's morning run has at least kept her stamina up to par for her field of activity. This would at least, hopefully, appease her sparring partner, should she make it out alive to tell the story.

Once Riza has the man under control, "Attack," Rebecca would say. With an elongated hand, straight and stiff, bent by the elbow, Riza slices down full strength towards the man's throat. It provokes a startled cough, a loud gasp, as the strike throttles the guard's windpipe. The man spurts a sloppy spit into the air, reflexive hands quickly rescuing his neck, shielding it from incoming attacks.

As the guard's legs thrash backward in motion, his cap falls to the floor, head hanging at the edge of the bed. Fighting for his life, the lashing man grabs a handful of her ass in an effort to pull himself back up.

Riza's eyes bulge with shock, eyebrows raised, gasping offendedly.

The guard pauses and stares back with wide eyes, terrified of her expression. His movement is still for a second. " _Verzeihung,_ " he says. Sorry.

Striking him on the face, severe and punishing, she growls, " _Geh zum Teufel!"_  Go to hell!

Then, with loud, heavy breathing, Riza re-twists the tie in one hand. Looping it around the man's neck, she somersaults to the floor, using the momentum of her weight to put pressure around his airway.

From the ground, she pulls, straining, hoping it is steady enough to send the man into slumberland. But when the hands curling around the tie desperately reach for her, Riza swiftly snatches the mushroom-shaped lamp on the bedside table, killing the light.

With as much strength she could muster, with racing heart launching to a sprint, she whacks the man on the head. Limp, listless, his body flops on the bed, head dangling near the ground. The man's breathing is now slow and steady, like a sleeping baby.

When Riza looks up, she finds Roy pinned to the ground, a thin cut across his cheek. His perpetrator sitting atop him grunts, big hands bracing around Roy's throat. The guard roars, animosity in his voice, " _Leck mich am Arsch!_ " Lick my ass!

"Fu-ck… you..." Roy retorts, tense fingers clutching, scraping at the man's hands.

There is no time for her to breathe. With the rush of adrenaline flooding her, unthinking, rash, Riza flings herself at the big man. Landing on the guard's back, she chokes the man's throat with taut arms, her legs rigid around his abdomen. She tightens her hold, gripping; anything to take his attention away from Roy. The man falters, knocking a collection of multicolored bottles on the vanity table, staggering them to the ground.

As she hears a dry cough and a deep heave for oxygen from the man, Riza feels a sudden penetrating pain across the span of her back. Her head suffers equally. An acute, throbbing ache, as if the content within expands outward with barely any room. The guard drives himself backwards, rough against the wall, attempting to release the clutching woman. The next thing Riza hears is Roy's dampened voice calling out her name.  _Riza! Riza!_  But her mind is spinning, dizzy from the pain, the world a woozy, unsteady thing. It's a sensation that beckons her to sleep and surrenders her consciousness to a dream.

But the fight is not yet over.

Fatigued, drained and sore, Riza drops to the carpet. When she opens her eyes, the guard has once again grappled with Roy. This time, Roy is on his feet, his back glued to the wall as the guard shoves him senseless, over and over. Before the bulky man can put another hand on Roy, Riza rises to a stand. The gun holstered to her thigh is tempting. But in a moment of awareness, she searches for the next best thing.

Grabbing the stout flower vase from the vanity table, she swings her steady hand before aiming the ceramic pot with precision.  _One. Two. Three_. She throws. A fast motion, accurate.

It hits the man perfectly on the back of his head.

The sound of skull against hardened clay is similar to a mirror shattering, a fracture in the air. The blow seems to be more damaging than intended as red slowly drips down from his blond hair. The vase breaks into a hundred tiny, scattered pieces. Though the man stands unmoving, upright and vertical, the overt relief in Roy's eyes tells Riza that the guard is affected, impaired. In a split second, the guard falls unconscious, his universe a blank slate.

Inelegantly, Riza collapses onto the carpet, legs splayed out in a sloppy manner, one propped up to form a triangle. Gasping, sighing, a combination of the two, she inhales, sensing the oxygen flowing through her lungs. The sweat on her hairline feels cool now that her body is simply simmering, the fire gingerly extinguished with exhaustion.

Roy swipes the trailing salt on his forehead with a sleeve. Crawling towards Riza, Roy hovers over her body, his hands beside her torso, his knees by her hips. Fear or concern clouds his appearance. And his hand, it finds the bump on her head. The sensation is pulsating, pounding, but the warmth of his palm takes the pain away, if only temporary.

Their eyes meet. Somehow, before any words can leave his tongue, Riza knows exactly what Roy will be asking. His palm is cradling her head, and his enlarged pupils and his parting mouth, they all pinpoint to the same repressive concern for her.

"I'm alright, Roy," says Riza, a small, consoling smile. "Really," she adds, when a flicker of worry still shrouds his vision.

He nods, his gaze softening. Then he chuckles. "Thank you for saving me back there, Miss Hawkeye."

Riza laughs lightheartedly, further disheveling her bun into a mess of long, golden strands on the floor. "You might want to save that until the end of our mission."

Her spontaneous hand extends for the cut on his cheek, but she stops when the thought of affection seeps in, her gesture merely floating in space. Instead, she asks, "Are you hurt?"

Roy takes her drifting hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "I'm okay."

It is only a matter of time before the guards wake. Above all, Riza isn't sure if the harsh grunts and the fitful banging on the walls will arouse the neighbors beyond the divider. At the foreboding thought of the Luftwaffe charging Room 136, she gathers herself, her wit and rationality.

Roy pulls her up, bringing her upright. Removing his suit jacket, he gently drapes it around her shoulders. He offers his hand to Riza. "Shall we?"

"Through the balcony?" she asks, taking his hand.

He smiles. "Sounds like a plan."


	10. covered up with roses, can't hear the screams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A big, BIG thanks to [LadyAureliana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAureliana/pseuds/LadyAureliana), who discussed with me at length about Riza's "fear", and [A Passing Housewife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NPC_MPDG/pseuds/A%20Passing%20Housewife) for lending me her wonderful OC, Gertrude Merryweather. Enjoy :)

**Two Hours Outside of Paris, October 10, 1942**

The wind is strong outside of the city with a notable, consistent sway to accompany their drive as they traverse the undisturbed, barren road. Along the pastureland, high with untrimmed grass and burgeoning hedges, stands a simple, rectangular barn. In the fog-laden night, it looks eerie and abandoned. There are no telltale signs of life from the inside. On the exterior, the building is swept with marks of deterioration, peeling paint and scratched up wooden planks.

When the outlines of two figures - one tall and lean, and the other shorter and rounder in comparison - emerge from the barn, Riza knows they have arrived at the correct location.

The engine sputters before it fully dwindles to silence, a haze of heat wheezing from the hood. Roy exits the car first. Like a gentleman, he swiftly rounds to the passenger side, a light jog akin to one of an eager date. Roy opens the door and proffers his hand to Riza for a safe passage out of the vehicle, which she takes willingly with more than a grateful smile.

As Riza and Roy approach, the two shadowy figures emulate, bridging the distance, until their faces become recognizable in the dark. A flash of light greets the two agents, blinding and white and surprising. Instinctively, Riza raises a hand, shielding herself from the intrusive brightness.

" _Comment tu te sens_  Agents Mustang and Hawkeye? You two look a bit… banged up," Maes says, both hands on the bulky, cubic camera. Lowering the item, his one hand toys with the rectangular glasses on the tip of his nose, pushing it upward. "I'll send this portrait to your flat, Hawkeye."

Maes nods to the other figure, a stately older woman with threads of snowy white hair amongst a canvas of black. Mutely, she disappears inside the barn. When she materializes a few minutes later, she carries with her a first aid bag that looks flat and small compared to her protruding stomach and a clothed ice pack with a rounded tin cap no bigger than her head.

The woman's English accent is smooth and dignified and magnificently proper, similar to the residents Riza's encountered in Southern England, the ones fortunate enough to attend the best boarding schools. "Here is an ice pack for you, young lady," she furnishes the bag in Riza's hand, which Riza immediately affixes to the back of her head. Convincing the woman she is alright, Riza politely declines when the older lady offers to scan her aching back for bruises.

The woman turns to Roy. "And you look like you've a few cuts on your cheek. I'm going to disinfect the wound."

"It's not nece-"

Insistent and sharp, the woman orders, "Stay right there, young man. I am going to address that nasty cut."

Under the woman's commanding scowl Roy obediently crouches down, his hands on his knees, to meet the woman's height. He pokes out his cheek to her, grimacing then hissing slightly at the mild touch of alcohol-drenched gauze against his skin.

"Do you have any bruises?" the English woman asks, eyeing him from top to bottom.

"No. I was able to dodge the few punches he threw."

"Attaboy!" she exclaims. Like a proud mother. Then, winking at Roy with mischief about her, she adds, "The OSS sure knows how to groom their boys."

Rubbing the back of his head lightly, Maes bursts out, "Ah, where are my manners! Roy, Riza, this lovely woman is Gertrude Merryweather." Maes gestures towards the two agents. "Trudy, this is one of our finest agents, Riza Hawkeye, and her partner from America, Roy Mustang."

"Mr Mustang, pleased to be your acquaintance," Trudy says with a wide smile.

Roy takes the woman's hand, shaking it firmly. "Please call me Roy."

Riza extends her hand, smiling. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Merryweather."

Blanketing Riza's hand into her fleshy ones, Trudy says, "Miss Hawkeye, I have heard so many wonderful things about your work."

"Thank you," Riza says, her cheeks warm against the cold, swelling mist.

"Trudy here will be your temporary handler while I go home and propose to my girlfriend on her birthday!" Maes declares, his voice boasting with the cheerfulness of a child.

Slapping his back in a friendly fashion, Roy says, grinning, "Congratulations, Maes."

The corners of Riza's mouth tug upward. "She's a lucky lady, Maes. Congratulations."

Laughing out loud, unreserved and obnoxiously happy, Maes replies, "Thank you, thank you! I am a very lucky man! Gracia's an amazing woman. The prettiest woman I've ever laid my eyes on. And she will make the most won-"

Brusquely, Riza cuts, "Alright Maes, stop right there. It's getting late."

"Sorry," the man says with reddened cheeks. Clearing his throat, Maes polishes his appearance into solemnity. "Have we found the location of the heavy water plant?"

The two agents steal a glance at each other. Decidedly, Roy explains, "Well no, not exactly. Mr Arnaud wouldn't say a word about where it is. Instead, we got this." Plucking the folded paper from his suit pocket, Roy presents it to Maes. "Perhaps you can tell us what's here at this address."

With slanting brows, Maes studies the address. His curious fingers rub his chin. "This part of France is roughly two hours away from where we are. It might be a Nazi safehouse, considering the proximity from the border of the  _zone occupée_." He hands the scribbled piece to the older woman. "Give Trudy a week or so to figure this out. In the meantime, stay in France and go to this address in Lyon. It's one of the places  _la résistance_ has set up for us to use. And there's some petrol in the barn to get you there."

Trudy's face resurfaces from the paper in her hand. She says in a warning tone, "Lay low until I get to you. Don't use your false identities anymore. The resistance will provide you with a package which contains your new cover to fly you out of here."

As the men refill the tank to the brim (with Maes' occasional laughter piercing the lifelessness of the night), Riza assembles a set of necessities the older woman has prepared into a small travel luggage. In it there's shaving cream and razor, feminine hygiene products, and a pouchful of medicine and emergency kit, Trudy says. It should last them until the next time the older woman is in town.

Once everything is packed and ready to go, Riza installs herself at the driver's seat. Roy takes the passenger side, unwilling and hesitant, sitting at the edge of the seat, as though the center cushion is scorching to the touch. Riza ignores his disinclination, assuming it's a jab to his masculinity for letting a woman drive.

The car coughs to a start and whirs itself onto the gravelly, narrow road.

Less than an hour has been travelled, but Roy blatantly shoots her incessant sidelong glances, his gaze full of curiosity. He shifts in his seat, constantly adjusting his posture, and shuffles his feet many times until it clangs against the steel crevice of the car. It is loud enough it catches her attention behind the thrumming engine. And his eyes, they finally rest on her, observing her.

"Spit it out," Riza says, but her tone is neither angry nor irritated.

But Roy stays silent, righting himself in his seat. Riza asserts with a short chuckle, friendly and inviting, "You keep looking at me. There must be something you want to say."

Her vision remains on the road, but she can picture a smile as he speaks. "I'm very impressed, Riza."

She looks at him briefly, trying to catch a glimpse of that smile.

"Sure, I've heard from colleagues about your skills in combat, read about your proficiency with languages. But to see it first hand is a different matter altogether."

Riza replies, chuckling, her eyes forward, "I don't want to sound like an arse, but I thought you were just another bookworm who had no idea how to defend himself."

"Seriously?" he asks, disbelief in his tone.

"Perhaps I should show you your file. It's full of outstanding achievements in the scientific field, nuclear power research and contribution to the early Tube Alloys project… But absolutely  _none_  regarding combat," Riza states, laughing heartily.

Roy hums. "I don't know if I should feel offended or not…"

She laughs again. "Is that really all you were going to say?"

Solemnly, he inquires, "Are you tired? I can drive the rest of the way there."

"No, you've had enough driving for the day," she pauses, then adds, "and I feel safer when I drive..."

He gasps playfully. "Are you implying that my driving is  _shitty_ , Miss Hawkeye?"

"Oh, frightfully so," she replies, teasing, a smirk pulling on her lips, "you could use a lesson or two, Mr Mustang."

Resting one arm on the flat top of the backrest, Roy twists his body, facing her. "And will you be the one providing these lessons?"

With both hands on the steering wheel, she ganders at him with an attractive smile. "Only if you ask nicely."

"Miss Hawkeye-"

But all at once, a loud, rumbling sound hits her. In the distance, the sky turns a horrifying purple, a sudden bright color against the gloomy night, a split second flash from behind the hills. She is no longer anticipating the rest of his words.

Then it hits again, the thunder. It is closer and louder and brighter this time, threatening and foreboding, tearing the heavens with its sharp, wirelike tendrils, God's warning of an impending wrath. Riza hasn't come across something so terrifying in such a long time. Not since that night at her home. This instance is not one she can drown out by simply ignoring or talking herself into order. Instead, everything about it blanches her complexion, jerking her out of control as the nightmare from her childhood arises from slumber.

Riza swerves, veering off the paved dirt and onto the tall grass, crushing its verdure with the weight of the tires. Luckily the speed in which she has been driving is slow and steady, the inviting banter and swallowing fatigue interfering with her full concentration. When she rams her reflexive foot onto the brake, the car whiplashes. The agents, however, emerge unharmed from the minor mishap.

Beside her, Roy leaps close, venturing into her space. As she stares, mute and dumbfounded, she finds his eyes heavy with concern, amplified with a mix of terror and shock.

Briefly, her sense of time and place are lost, the space a stubborn, muffled ringing in her ears. Breathing has never been so difficult. It feels as though she's submerged underwater, dragged deeper into the base of the ocean as painful memory haunts her vision. Her heart jumps and thrusts, prodding its way out, attempting to break through her skin from the fright.

 _Compose yourself_ , Riza tells herself,  _someone else is here watching_.

Calming her pounding heart, she pulls in air, tucking her irrational fear under the pretense of exhaustion. A rough scratch of her throat and the lie slips past her teeth as natural as the green on a leaf. "Sorry. I must've fallen asleep for a bit there..."

"Are you-" Roy asks, unconvinced. His eyes narrow, as if penetrating past her fabrication.

She interrupts smoothly, leaning herself against the leather backrest, "Yes, I'm fine. I didn't mean to stray off the road, I'm sorry."

One of Roy's hands is at the wheel. "Here, let me take over."

Insistent, she maintains, "No, Roy. I'm fine. I'm awake now and we're not too far-"

"Please let me-"

"No," she says, curt and clear, a finality in her timbre.

Roy is wordless. Reluctantly, he settles himself back into his seat, leaning uncomfortably against the leather cushion. His eyes peer towards her, at her lap or her arm, before looking right back at her expression. He collects himself into passivity with a long sigh. But even as a wave of apprehension ebbs away from his limbs, his sneaky, observing gaze is anything but content.

Summoning composure, Riza states, "I'm alright. I'm driving the rest of the way there."

* * *

**Lyon, Four Hours Outside of Paris**

The rain. In the darkness, the sound is nearby, as though the ceiling above him has collapsed and a stream has flooded in. The atmosphere of the room is cool, like his apartment in San Francisco during the wet seasons. The only aspect missing is the smell; the scent of fresh water seeping in the ground, combined with a pleasant, earthy fragrance of something organic.

Little by little, Roy's world is colorful again. All along the dusky background, he sees tiny specks of blue and red and orange. They glow brighter, shinier, until everything turns as white as a piece of blank paper. The soreness in his body - his legs, arms, and back - are creeping in. The cut on his cheek stings yet again even though the pain was nonexistent only a moment ago. The chill in the room intensifies along with the numbness on his toes.

His eyes flutter open.

The constant sound of gushing water lingers. Yet, as Roy blinks and twists his head to peek outside of the trellised window, he sees not a single droplet, only clumps of gray, heavy clouds communing in the sky and the thin branches of lightning splitting the earth with a roar more shattering than its appearance.

To his right, he finds her bunk to be vacant. Riza's blanket is scrunched up to one side, the center of her pillow dented from where her head had been resting. Her pistol sitting above the nightstand in between their beds lies untouched, cold to the touch and exactly where she has left it.

Surprised by her absence, Roy tosses his cover aside and launches from the mattress, flinging himself upright, blinking himself awake. Following the streaming sound, he lumbers, the murky moonlight guiding his way, one hand along the peeling wallpaper.

What he discovers upon reaching the bathroom startles him, jolting him fully from lethargy. His eyebrows arch, eyes popping out of their sockets at the sight before him.

Under the shower, Riza crouches into a sphere. Her arms hug her knees, tight and guarding, her face buried in between her knotted posture. The rushing water is torrential, slamming onto her harshly and wetting her hair into a slick golden mess. Her dark blue nightgown has morphed into a different color, now an overweight, sodden wrapping of black fabric sticky on her skin. She shivers. Her neck twitches every so often, her form trembling out of control. In front of her the pool eddies into the drain, the sound rapid and funneling, like a black hole sucking in water.

"Riza?"

Her chin tilts up, seeing him. But her sight is distant, set somewhere past his periphery.

Snatching the pile of towels hanging behind him, Roy flies to her side. He shuts off the water, frigid and prickly on his skin. Gently, he swaddles Riza into the comfort of the cotton, patting her lightly. He continues his ministration with patience, remaining beside her for an eternity, attempting to generate a surge of heat with a mild rub.

Confused, baffled, and disturbed. Roy is quiet and musters strength enough to keep calm, his focus entirely on the woman in his arms - her wellbeing.

As he sits there, soaking in the puddle with his protective clutch around her figure, Roy can feel her fear, in the way her skin crawls with gooseflesh and the continuous squirming of her body. He strokes her hair, once and again, his own fingers shaking from the bitterness of the cold. He pulls her head close until she lies against his chest. He shushes, a soothing noise that he hopes will provide relief to her helpless state. In a matter of minute, her quaking subsides, replaced by miniscule shuddering as she thaws and regains her warmth.

"Let's get back to bed, yeah?" Roy whispers, kindness in his tone.

Silently, Riza nods, pushing herself up with effort against the wet, tiled floor.

Even as she gathers the energy to cross onto carpeted ground, Roy's hands are firm around her shoulders, unwilling to let go. He settles her at the foot of her bed. Scrambling to find a sleeping attire for her to wear, Roy seizes a clean collared shirt, unworn and the thickest of them all, tucked beneath their combined garments. Thoughtfully he says, handing the wool-woven piece to her, "Sorry, it seems this is all I can find for you to sleep in. Your nightgown won't dry fast enough in this weather."

But Riza springs up from her bed, disregarding him. "M-my cigarette. Where is it?" Lunging for her small purse, her fingers pry open the pouch, tussling with the contents.

In her hysteria, Roy rests a cautious hand on hers. "Riza..."

Still, she searches, frantic, bewildered. "Where is-? Where's my cigarette?"

Roy catches her elbow. "Riza." Meeting her darting eyes, he says firmly, "Let's get you out of these wet clothes first. I don't want you catching a cold."

Nodding quickly, she says, swiping the shirt from his hand, "F-fine."

As Roy turns his back around, his hands dig for a pair of change for himself. He grips the hem of his striped pajama top and lifts it up, hastily ridding himself from the chilly, damp clothes. Then he slips his matching bottom down onto the floor until he is left only in a pair of plaid elastic shorts.

Never has Roy felt more aware of his nakedness than now. While his covert activities and robust physical training before every mission contribute nicely to his well-muscled appearance, sensing Riza's presence brings his heart rate to a jog. Behind him, she's stripped bare when her nightgown hits the floor with a wet, plopping sound. His toes instinctively turn when he imagines the shapely curves of her breasts and waist and legs. But Roy wills himself to face the wall, dressing himself to decency and scolding the debauchery into submission.

Riza's dragging feet scrape the floor, joined momentarily by the squeaky noise of spring coiling. When he sees her body fall sluggishly onto the thin, flimsy mattress, Roy hauls himself back to his own tolerable cot.

He faces Riza from his bed, lying down with a restlessness he can't shake off. With one hand sliding underneath his pillow, Roy's gaze is watchful like a hawk.

In the uneasy silence, Riza's sprawled body twists to meet the ceiling, displaying an apprehensive demeanor about her. Her lips purse tightly and her crossed arms shield her face in a defensive manner as though bracing for the sky to come crashing down.

Shifting in her position, seemingly to seek comfort, Riza says, "It won't stop."

Knowingly, Roy remarks, "The thunder. Right?"

She flips herself, nodding and murmuring into her pillow, "It's still going, but not as loud now. I tried to drown the noise with the water..."

"Would it help if I talk? Keep your focus elsewhere?" Roy broaches.

Riza, despite her speechlessness, turns to face him. There's something about her appearance that urges him to talk. Perhaps it's the way she bites her lips or the way she gazes at him, reluctant yet hardly blinking, as if yearning for that bedtime story that would lull her to sleep.

"Let's see. What's something you don't know about me," Roy announces, musing, stirring on his bed. He grins before speaking in a joking manner, "I have a terrible sweet tooth, inherited it from my mother according to my aunt."

With a weak smile, Riza nods, urging him to continue.

"But as much as I love sugar, I try not to consume too much of it, because my sparkly white smile and my flat, toned abs won't maintain themselves. And while this isn't fully researched yet _,_  I have one hundred percent confidence that the chemical in sugar called dopamine is an additive and it makes you want to eat even more sweets."

Riza strains a mild chuckle. "You are such a swot..."

Smirking against his pillow, Roy retorts in jest, "I was born intelligent, you see. With a brain bigger than Einstein's."

Riza's expression crumples in incredulity, her eyes rolling to the side. "Oh my God…"

"A joke. Just a joke," he says, chuckling. He resumes the anecdote about his sugar obsession, "My favorite dessert is key lime pie. The tartier, the better with a dollop of whip cream on top. Or if there is no whip cream, then vanilla ice cream will do. But don't get me wrong. My favorite ice cream flavor is not vanilla but Howard Johnson's chocolate chip."

She releases a small laughter, effortlessly now. "That's oddly specific. Do you not eat a normal meal?"

"For my  _normal_  meal, I love a good meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Especially the recipe my father used to make. He would make the perfect gravy to go with them."

Humming attentively, she says, "He seemed like a wonderful father..."

With a small smile, Roy says, "He was."

Apologetically, Riza replies, "I'm sorry about your parents. I read about what happened."

"That's okay. That was many years ago."

Without warning, a booming sound rips in the distance, sudden and deafening.

Pulling the blanket over her head, Riza quivers in panic, the warm material over her teetering towards the edge of the bed with each violent tremble. Roy bolts himself upright, leaning on his elbow, unreserved worry in his timbre, "Riza, do you-"

This time the thunder breaches through the space, an explosive blast and a menacing white light right outside of their window. The sound and glare seem to cripple Riza, crushing whatever courage she has collected into mere dust. She's puffing enormously, gasping, as though enough air won't enter her lungs. Panic-stricken, she jumps out of her bed and swiftly stumbles into Roy's, cowering under his cover in search of safety.

When she realizes her action, she promptly shies away with darkening complexion, apologizing, "…Sorry. I can-I can move back-" Her feet kick abruptly under the cover, ready to jerk back up and careen herself to her own lone bunk.

But Roy blocks her departure. In a quick movement with his arm, he winds it tightly around her tattered figure, draped around her waist, and holding her there flush against his chest. "No. Don't."

They stay still for a moment, unsure of what has happened. In his mind, the impropriety of their gesture finally sinks in, guided by the unbidden thought of intimacy which can lead to its own complicated affair, especially during a crucial mission such as this. Riza, however, seems to find consolation with her full posture, the shivers on her skin and the vulnerability about her fading away by the second.

The silence expands, filling the space. Not long after, the rain starts. The light drizzle taps the roof until it slowly evolves into a downpour, banging against the sheet metal above their heads. It must have been only a few minutes, but time seems to move ever so slowly, as though the world pauses for them to figure out the next course of action.

Under her now steady breathing, the skin around his chest turns hot from the vapor, his shirt doing nothing but spreading and aggravating the heat, escalating his heart rate. Roy can feel her lips move as she begins speaking, each word raising the delicate hairs on his arms. "Thunder reminds me of what happened that night... The night of the explosion."

Reflexively, his fingers weave in her drying hair, playing with it, stroking it softly.

"My father was testing his experiment again, as usual." She scoffs, "That brilliant man was always preoccupied with his research for as long as I could remember. I think it's fair to say he was obsessed with it."

He can feel her fiddle with the button on his shirt, tracing her cold finger along the circular rim. "My mother usually worked late at the diner across the street, wouldn't be home until two or three in the morning. But she called in and took that night off, saying she needed to cook my father some supper because he had been too busy in his lab to care for himself."

Riza resumes her story, self-deprecating herself in the process, "I was listening to the radio - to Lowell Thomas - like  _any_  fifteen year old girl would…" But her tone takes a turn, "...when suddenly all I could feel was heat. And I heard a very loud noise. Similar to thunder but louder, and much,  _much_  closer..."

Her breath hitches.

"The next thing I know I was in the hospital, treated for burns."

Roy motions himself backward just slightly, meeting a melancholic gaze. Her lips are flat, unsmiling, and her brows slope downward. His hand is now tender on her arm, caressing, consoling. "Riza…"

Awkwardly, she laughs, as though erasing her sorrow with a blatant show of forced joy, "The burns aren't bad; just a little patch near my shoulder. But my father sure leaves an everlasting gift of my fear for thunder."

When Roy opens his mouth, as he's about to say something, her expression turns stern. "Please don't say you're sorry. I've heard enough of that until the day I die. The bastard never cared for his family, didn't give a damn about anything else but his research. I don't even know why my mother married him…"

Lightly, Roy chuckles. "Oh no, I wasn't going to say sorry. I was going to say that I think your dad's a crumb. A terrible crumb. The worst kind of fella out there."

She scrutinizes him, amused. "Well, I haven't heard this kind of sympathy before. It sure is original."

Grinning, Roy adds, "I was going to say something worse. But I was properly schooled to be a gentleman, so I refrain from speaking like that in front of a lady."

With sincerity she says, smiling, "Thanks, Roy."

Brushing her bangs away from her face, he says kindly, "Let's try and get some sleep now, alright? You've had a long night."

Appreciatively, she nods, her mouth curving into the sweetest, most endearing smile he has seen on her yet. Roy palms her cheek and returns the endearment with a languid kiss on her forehead, warm, reassuring. And again on her hair, affectionately, soothingly, the silk strands smooth against his lips. He slides a pacifying hand over her shoulder, enveloping her in a sheltering embrace before nuzzling her head under his chin. Feeling a diffident hand slide along his waist, Riza eventually rests it there, pleasantly curling it around his torso.

Outside, the rain gradually ceases to a trickle, the beads falling onto the windowpane with a sedative dripping sound. Within a few short hours, the light of dawn breaks on the horizon, an outline of bright orange over the hills, a muted blend of yellow and pink below a high stretch of brilliant blue. Although the sun shines obstinately, tracking up to its halfway point with an invigorating beam, the two agents are deep in repose, idle and peaceful. They hold onto each other with bliss on their expressions, a soft snore in the stillness, slumbering away and preserving solace in the unfaltering warmth of tangled limbs.


	11. no angel debating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just a quick note: Grumman's relationship to Riza is ambiguous here (other than what's stated in this chapter). I hope you enjoy :)

**Los Angeles, July 12, 1948**

Along the turquoise diner bench, brimmed with infectious laughter and amusing exchanges, sit two of Riza's most favorite people: her son Elio and Rebecca Catalina.

In Rebecca's hand is a blue crayon, clamped between her fingers, anchored in one spot as she once again questions Elio's instruction. The woman constantly looks over the boy's shoulder, grimacing, asking him one more time why her sloppy scrawl of an island has to be colored the same as the ocean. The boy simply replies with, "Because I like blue!"

In front of Elio is a square book, pages turned to a scribble of large texts with a sketch of a girl wearing a pirate hat in one corner. Elio's short finger underlines each word, slow and careful, his expression revealing the eagerness of a student learning a new trick, with innocent, brown eyes bulging against flushed complexion. The boy is reading aloud, once again dictating Rebecca's clumsy hand as she paints his phrase (a palm tree) onto a sheet of paper. From the way Rebecca's shoulders droop, Riza knows the tree must be colored blue yet again.

With a mane of striking dark hair, mesmerizing violet eyes, and a smile more brilliant than diamonds, Rebecca was everything Riza aspired to be as a child. Unlike Riza, hardened by a traumatic incident and a less than ideal upbringing, Rebecca hailed from a prosperous working-class household with a loving family. Equipped with such normalcy, Rebecca had viewed the universe as a largely beautiful and redeemable place. And with this vision, she carried with her an unquenchable optimism that propelled her into the business of saving the world, one mission at a time.

They were enrolled at the academy in Northamptonshire, both barely graduated, young and eager to help the cause. Though at first they had only regarded each other as acquaintances by way of hallway greetings, one uninterested to learn who the other was, Rebecca's meddling in every cadet (male cadets)'s affair eventually struck a nerve in the blonde's mind.  _Why is she even here in the first place_ , Riza would scrutinize,  _surely her parents could afford her a nice, civilian job at their accountancy firm and a handsome husband to boot._  Riza had guessed that the woman's true motivation was probably something foolish and dense like... finding a soulmate.

But weeks went by. After a grueling day of field training - shooting rifles and wrestling cadets to victory - Riza finally realized that the woman's motivation was just about as sincere as hers, soulmate or no soulmate. "Sorry about your head darling, but I plan to make the world the best place to live for my unborn children," Rebecca had said, cackling and pinning Riza to the ground, her taut arm on the blonde's throat.

Now here is Rebecca, over a decade later, perching beside Elio and entertaining him like the most doting aunt a boy can ever have. She doesn't have a child to care for. Instead, she is married to an American husband she met in the field, an ex-OSS agent, handsome and deeply devoted, but paralyzed from the waist down during a critical assignment. Presently, what awaits her in the daytime is a humble job at her in-laws' general store, several miles away from the heart of the city, a long way from danger and the arduousness of her previous occupation.

"Here's your coffee," Riza says, clinking the white mug against the wooden table. Serving a plate full of eggs in front of Elio, she asks her friend, "You sure you don't want to eat, Becca?"

The brunette shakes her head. "No thanks. The latest diet fad is to skip breakfast."

With skepticism, Riza replies, "Alright, but don't go sticking your fork in Elio's breakfast. He needs to eat before Roy picks him up." She peers at the yellow book. "What are you two reading anyway?"

" _Pippi in the South Seas_ ," Rebecca answers, catching a glimpse of Riza with a stretched-out smile. "Don't worry, we're almost done with the book. Then he can eat." Gently, she nudges the boy on the shoulder, winking with mischief. "Right, Elio?"

"Yes, Aunt Becca," he responds, grinning toothily, his fawn-like eyes closed into a slit. "If you're hungry you can have some of my food."

Rebecca squeals, her face widening, "Oh Elio, you are so goshdarn cute!" Swiftly, the brunette gathers the boy tight with her arms, twirling his body around until the grin is wiped off of his small face, the boy rasping to be let go.

When all is said and done, Elio crawls to the inner end of the booth where wall meets cushion. His stare is absorbed on the oval plate, the fork lifted to scramble the sunny side up eggs into a puddle of yellow and white. The blue-filled doodle of a pirate map is now neatly folded against the wall,  _Pippi on the South Seas_  atop it, holding it in place.

"So how's it going with Mustang?" Rebecca asks, bringing the rim of the cup to her lips.

Riza blinks in amazement. "You get straight to the point, don't you?"

"Yes, and that's why you love me," states Rebecca, giggling. With a knowing smirk, she adds, teasingly, "Is he still as handsome as before?"

Rebecca always has a way of easing up a heavy topic of discussion. In a playful fashion, Riza tilts her head sideways, looking into the distance. She exhales a long, dreamy sigh with a hand cupping her cheek. Like an infatuated schoolgirl. "Yes. Yes, he is. I think his age has made him even more refined actually. And his body is still as attractive as ever." It is meant as a joke. But after hearing it spoken aloud only then Riza realizes that every word of it is true. Even her  _swooning_  over him is something she might do, even if only in private.

Laughing boisterously, Rebecca quips, "Maybe Elio will have a brother soon. Or a sister."

Riza's eyes narrow, her lips slender into a horizontal line. "Ha-ha, very funny, Becca." But she can feel heat rise to her cheeks.

At the mention of his name, Elio looks up, curious. Endearingly, Rebecca pokes his fleshy cheek, earning a reflexive blink from the boy, which Rebecca returns with a fond ruffle of his disheveled hair. "Nothing, Elio. Auntie's just making a conversation with your mum."

Ridding herself of the naughty look, Rebecca asks, a seriousness about her, "Really though, how is Mustang with Elio?"

With a slight shift in posture, Riza confesses, "A doting father as far as I've seen. There isn't a day he's not taking Elio out, and there isn't a day Elio isn't asking about him. I don't know what to do..."

Rebecca eyes her disputably. "Isn't that a good thing?"

"Yes, but…" Riza answers apprehensively, "it's only good if he decides to stay."

"Why won't you let him stay on with the War Department  _and_  keep him around?" Rebecca inquires thoughtfully, lacing herself with caffeine in between her words. "So far he's come back safe and sound, not a nasty scratch on his body. And he's been on more missions than both of us combined. I'd say his survival record is looking pretty good."

Straightening her spine until it is strenuously vertical, Riza counters, "No. I don't think so."

Defiantly, Rebecca retorts, "Come on, Ri. Wouldn't you say it's  _at least_  a little unfair to tell a man to leave his job? His career?"

"He's either in Elio's life or not. I've already made the mistake of introducing him as his father when he first showed up. That little slip up could set Elio up for disappointment if he does decide to leave," Riza snarls with a bitterness on her tongue.

The clinking of silverware against ceramic abruptly stops. Feeling Elio's quiet gaze on her, Riza wonders, with a tinge of remorse and a palpitating pulse, if her assertion will have any effects on the five year-old.  _Is he old enough to discern their conversation?_   _What if Elio grows up hating his father for his mother's statement?_  She would only have herself to blame.

Righting herself in her seat, Rebecca presses, reasoning, "Look. I'm sure if he just explains he has a kid waiting for him, perhaps they'll send him on a less dangerous mission. Then he'll have more time to spend at home."

"You know it doesn't work like that."

The brunette bites back, "Well, what if this is his dream? What then?"

The overhead fluorescent light seems glaring in this instance. It is so bright and blinding it feels as though she's just stepped out into the sun after being kept in a solitary prison. Riza's head spins for a second, her eyes turning into slits, a wince on her expression. Rebecca's question echoes in her mind.

In the overwhelming moment, irritable and frustrated, Riza hisses at her friend, "You of all people should know this better than anyone, Becca. The last time you were on a mission, Jean didn't exactly come back in one piece, did he? You think I'd take that chance with Roy?"

Time comes to a standstill as silence permeates. The sizzling noises of the diner, the scraping of Elio's fork against his plate, all of these sound so distant now that the air about her is filled with remorsefulness and shame. Only then she realizes it's too late. There is no possibility to take it all back.

For all she knows, Riza has just dug up a painful memory Rebecca has spent years trying to bury in the recesses of her mind. "I'm sorry, Becca," Riza says, looking into her friend's eyes with sincerity, full of guilt, "that was very,  _very_  inconsiderate of me. I'm so sorry."

"You're right," Rebecca answers reflectively, a weak smile curving on her lips. There's no spite, only a hint of regret suffused in her tone. Her shoulders sink as she breathes out, fingers lightly tapping the half-drunk coffee mug. "I should have thought about what I said. I'm sorry, Riza."

"Please, Becca. Don't apologize. It was my fault," Riza insists, taking her friend's clammy hand into hers, gripping it with consolation. "And how's Jean doing?"

With a weary sigh, Rebecca replies, "He's doing alright. But I think he's been missing his old life." Her lips slim as she stares into the black liquid in her hand. "He misses it  _a lot_. He won't stop talking about it."

Before Riza can concur, Rebecca plops herself against the backrest - a loud swoosh - her arms folded below her breasts. "But it's not like he can just stand up and walk himself there. So it looks like he's got no choice but to stay home with me." She grins absurdly, an effort to alleviate the gravity of her husband's predicament.

"Becs," Riza mutters, hesitant, "do you miss the field?"

"Of course I do. There's not a day I don't think about it," the brunette says wistfully, "at first, it was the thrill; I missed that feeling, the adrenaline rush... and the spontaneous planning. But you know what's funny? I don't miss the thrill anymore and yet I still want to return."

"So you regretted retiring with Jean?"

Her fingers brace the cup stoutly, the tips turning white. "No, I didn't say that. I have absolutely zero regrets when it comes to Jean. It's just… we were both forced to move on from all of that sooner than expected..." She looks up at Riza. "What about you?"

"There were nights I dreamed I was back in the field," Riza narrates, quietly, "and this may sound terrible, but the highlight of my day is when Armstrong comes to visit and tells me stories about his missions. Just hearing about it makes me...  _giddy_."

At the jingling of bells by the entrance, Riza tilts her head up. Edward, one of the diner regulars and Winry's husband, along with his son Nicolas are walking in, hand-in-hand. Similar to his father, Nicolas' yellow fringe extends past his ears, longer than most boys his age. A mischievous grin, toothy and spread across half his face, always plays on the boy's lips. He looks as though he's got a trick up his sleeve, pulled out at the most inconvenient times. A look he shares with his father.

"Hiiii!" Elio shrieks, draining his voice from the excitement at seeing the four-year-old. Slipping himself under the table, Elio snakes his way out of the restriction of the booth, crawling to freedom. Both boys pile up their chatter without a halt in their breath, giggling, swapping riveting tales of  _Captain Silver and The Sea Hound_... until Nicolas decides to wrestle for a miniature toy truck from his father's leather bag.

With a drawn out astonishment, Elio studies the metal toy in his friend's hand, his eyes as bright as sunshine by the time Nicolas finishes prying apart the truck bed from its shell. Elio's half eaten meal is quickly forgotten. In his mind, there is only fun and games.

Approaching Riza's table, the young father rubs the back of his head, ruefully apologizing, "I'm sorry, Miss Riza. My mother isn't feeling too well today, so I brought Nicolas with me. I'll make sure to keep watch of him so he doesn't bother Winry."

Winry joins them from the kitchen, seeking an explanation from her husband, a clenched up egg beater around her fingers. Between the numerous apologies and Winry yelling at Edward, Riza interferes with a lighthearted laugh, a sympathetic look towards the blond man. Kindly, Riza suggests, a small smile curling her mouth, "Roy is taking Elio to the observatory today. Edward, I know you have to work later in the day. So if you two won't mind, I can ask Roy to bring Nicolas along. I think the children will have fun together."

"If you are fine with that, Miss Riza, that would be great," Edward beams. "Oh, by the way, there's a strange man loitering in front of your store. I just thought you should know."

Swiftly, Elio runs to his mother's side, Nicolas in tow beside him. With a flustered appearance about him, the boy interrupts, tugging on Riza's short sleeve, "Mom... I saw the same man at the park with dad." Pointing his short finger at the window, the boy states innocently, "He's looking inside the restaurant."

Riza pokes out her head, gaze aimed at the storefront, scanning the perimeter.

Under the shady awning, at the edge of the glass window, the nice gentleman who greets her at 5AM each morning captures her vision.

Among the passersby in thin shirts and slacks, the man stands out like a sore thumb. His pork pie hat is slanted on his head, with a tweed jacket too thick for a blistering, summer day. It's understandable that Edward identifies him as a loiterer; his piercing stare into the restaurant alone is anything but discreet. He lingers like a stalker, pacing about the curb with restive feet, his hands clasped behind his back. The man's gesture is intentional, almost taunting, a hunter luring its prey.

Without another word, Riza springs up from her seat. Rushing to the exit, with the door slamming behind her, she confronts the man in the bustling street.

Except he beats her to the punch, boldly pulling her aside to a quieter corner and hitting her with some startling information. The man speaks very fast in a dignified English accent, but his voice is flat and emotionless, as if he's reading directly from an index card, "Riza Hawkeye, rank Lieutenant just before her indefinite leave of absence from Special Operations Executive. Speaks seven different languages with fluency, a firearms specialist, trained in hand-to-hand combat with high proficiency," Peeking inside the diner, he adds with a tone less sure than what he's been spouting, "Age thirty-one, soon to be thirty-two, and mother of Elio Hawkeye... Or is it Elio Mustang?"

Riza simply stares, stoic, seemingly unaffected. Years of training seeps in. To most people, their emotions typically display under such pressure. But she keeps quiet, her expression unchanged as she collects her thoughts.

The man claps unabashedly, his bushy, grey mustache bobbing as he exerts laughter. "Outstanding! You don't succumb under scrutiny!" He mellows down. Then, hushedly, his hand covering the side of his mouth, he asks, "Can we speak? Preferably somewhere with a little bit more privacy?"

With a reluctant stride, Riza leads the man inside the diner. Her son and Nicolas are prattling by the jukebox, Edward handing Elio a silver coin for the boy to insert into the machine. Dinah Shore's upbeat melody satisfies the space. She passes Rebecca. Sensing the fleeting breeze, the brunette looks up. Riza shoots her a sideway glance, blinking once, a furtive signal that alerts her friend of a looming trouble.

Unexpectedly, Elio skulks over, floating away from under Edward's watch and towards the older man as they take their seats in the back of the diner. With the enthusiasm of a child, lacking politeness, Elio accosts, all in one breath, "Hey, you're the old man from the park!"

Riza extends an arm, attempting to reach Elio when her periphery finds Rebecca crossing the floor, approaching. But the bespectacled old man amiably leans towards the boy, smiling. He nods, his voice courteous and accommodating, "Yes, I am. How do you do, Elio?"

In his most refined manner, Elio replies, "I'm doing very well, sir. I am playing with my friend Nicolas until daddy gets here. Hey, you want to see what I'm reading?"

"Elio, let's not bother mummy," Rebecca steps in, resting guiding hands on the boy's shoulders, "we can finish reading  _Pippi_  with Nicolas."

Before Rebecca can steer the boy away, Elio inquires, his shoulders shrugging the brunette's hand, "Wait! Mom, when is daddy picking me up for the obse- orbser…?"

Riza's eyes soften. She articulates with patience, slow enough for Elio to follow, "Observatory."

"Ob-ser… va-tory," Elio repeats, enunciating, syllable by syllable.

Gently smoothing her son's jutting hair, Riza says, smiling, "That's right. Dad will be here in a couple of hours. Now go on and read with Auntie Becca, alright Elio?"

As the old man trails Elio's lackadaisical gait, with Rebecca shepherding the child away, he tells Riza rather confidently, "The boy looks exactly like his father. I wasn't sure at first, because there was no record of the father's name on the birth certificate. There were only rumors, you see. But I'll be damned; they're two peas in a pod."

She skips past his remark as though he has never said them. Instead, she sends a mock smile his way. "I'd offer you coffee, but I don't plan on letting you stay for long." Then she charges harshly, "So tell me now. Who are you and what do you want?"

Setting his hat down on the table, he answers, "My name is George Grumman. I'm a recruiter with the Secret Intelligence Service."

Plainly, Riza intones, "Ah I know what this is. I'm sorry but I am not interested. Besides, I've retired ages ago."

As he sneaks out a box of cigarettes from his jacket, the recruiter corrects, "No, that's not true. You've only submitted a leave of absence, which was approved by your superior Lieutenant-Colonel Hughes, now Brigadier Hughes, for an undisclosed reason. There's no file anywhere about your retirement."

She insists with a coldness, "Well either way, I'm not interested."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Grumman says cautiously, lighting his tobacco, "but if you weren't interested, you would have resigned instead of submitting a leave of absence."

At this, she can sense her skin perspiring, uneasiness descending in her chest, persistent and bothersome. All she can do is look at him pointedly, piercing daggers with her eyes. The man isn't wrong.

Grumman resumes, fixing the position of his glasses with the push of a finger, blowing out a haze with the other, "I know you've  _unofficially_  consulted Alex Armstrong with some document translations pertaining to his missions." He chuckles, as if amused, "Well, this has been going on for a number of years actually. Isn't that right?"

Riza exerts a dry cough at the cloud of smoke. It's been years since she last clamped a roll in between her teeth. Keeping her composure by bunching the uniform skirt in her hand, she finds her fingers clenching it as she speaks, "Alex needed help and he came to me."

There is no malice in his timbre. "So is that a favor for a friend or is there more to it than that?"

When she is mute, the old man smiles cunningly. "If I have to take a guess, perhaps an innate desire to help the country? Does that sound about right?"

She tries to sound determined and fierce with her answer; in her head, the words ring out like a declaration. But her throat seems to have run dry and her voice croaks instead, weak and unconvincing, "I have a family... I can't do this anymore."

He hums with a cleverness about him. "If you just recall your first year in academy, Miss Hawkeye. I believe you said you joined because, and I quote-" Taking out a small, black notebook from his jacket pocket, Grumman reads, expelling a billow, "'Thomas Paine describes best my dedication to the service,  _'The world is my country, all mankind are my brethren, and to do good is my religion'_.'" Looking up at Riza, he gloats with a self-satisfied smile, "Should I keep going and read your statement about world peace?"

Her teeth grit as she answers, "I was  _nineteen_."

Shrugging nonchalantly, Grumman ruffles the notebook back into his pocket. "Nineteen. Thirty-two. What does it matter? This is your life mission, if I may so myself."

"And I stand to reason that I was a young woman with a naive ideology," Riza attests, pulling a deep, tranquilizing breath.

Into the ashtray, he tamps down the drag with a finger. "But you've always cared about the country and the people. During the Great Depression, you helped out at the food bank  _every single day_. And a little source told me you had gone hunting, though illegally, and shot game birds with your friends to give to the poor."

With an assertive finger pressed on the wooden table, Riza contends, "It was the  _right_  thing to do. I think many people would have done the same."

Disagreeing, he tuts his finger side to side. "No, Miss Hawkeye, not everyone would do the same."

Riza maintains as calmly as she can manage, though her thought agrees, even if unadmittedly, "Like I said, I have a family now - a son that I have to worry about. I won't be getting back in the field. That's my final answer."

"Isn't having a family the more reason why you should rejoin? You must protect them  _at all cost_." Fixing his posture upright, Grumman composes a ceremonial expression. The cigarette lies in its circular casket, and he weaves his hands together, pleading with the somberness of someone who has suffered through enough deaths at the hand of war, "Miss Hawkeye, the war is not yet over. In fact, it is only the beginning.  _You_  can help end it. Look at the people on the streets. Don't you want to make sure they can go on with their lives without worry?"

Obediently, she gleans at the window. She sees a pair of young lovers, arm in arm, uncontainable affection in the way their fingers collide. Trailing after the couple is a small child in a pink pinafore, both hands stretched out in front of her, as if chasing a butterfly. The girl's mother follows closely behind, calling out her name to stop the girl from venturing too far, an unrestrained laughter now and again as the child flees from her grip. The newspaper boy is there, static since five in the morning, a kid who looks barely seventeen, with the world ahead of him.

The peace Riza has made with herself unravels with each passing second.

It shouldn't be hard for Riza to choose. As a matter of fact, her choice has already been made, that day at the hospital, with baby Elio around her arms. But there's a longing sensation tugging beneath her breast, aching, seeking a second chance. It erodes her conviction, ever so steadily.  _Please_ , it cries out,  _helping others is your calling; it's what you've always wanted._

But Riza stomps her oxfords against the floor, a derisive clack, reprimanding herself into certainty. She stares at the man, unyielding, "Being here, with my son, is protecting him."

"Ahh speaking of family," he says wittingly, "your father was researching chemical weapons during the First World War, specifically chlorine gas and its countermeasures. He saved a damn good number of soldiers with his research. And just before that unfortunate incident, he began studying nuclear chain reaction, claiming it could prevent many wars to come, which we know now would've been the case had he been able to continue."

All of a sudden her feet feel slippery inside her soles, her hands moist. "Where are you going with this?" she asks with suspicion.

"I believe that you want to help our cause, Miss Hawkeye." And with a beaming smile across his face, a mien that exudes victory, Grumman adds, "Berthold was an astounding father, I'm sure, to be able to raise such a fine daughter like yourself. But he was also dedicated to helping others and his country. And that is just like  _you_. It's true what they say, that the apple doesn't fall very far from the tree."

Riza's expression darkens, her blood boiling underneath her skin. Her voice is sharp, admonishing, "You don't know  _anything_  about me."

Confused, the recruiter tries to amend himself, "Miss Hawkeye, if I may please explain-"

Severely, she cuts, "No. I've done my thinking and  _you_  are not welcomed here anymore. Get out."

"Wait, I-"

Flexing a rigid finger towards the exit, Riza barks loudly, "Get out! Now!"

At the unexpected turn of event, Grumman's expression falters, daubed by resignation. He rises and lumbers from the booth, slow, unsure of what has happened. He tucks his hat under one arm with his mouth parting halfway, mumbling, his steps towards the door staggering as the man's mind, no doubt. Luckily, her teeming diner, crowded with idle talks and regular patrons who could care less about the commotion, takes no notice.

Grumman timidly offers her a last glance, his indecisive hand along the door handle. Beside her, Riza finds her best friend standing stiffly, scowling and pouting at the recruiter, as if berating him on her behalf. At Rebecca's threatening appearance, the old man unhinges his objective, departing Bluebird Diner without another look.

Gently, Rebecca blankets a hand around Riza's shoulder, her brows wrinkling with worry, "Riza, is everything alright?"

The anger about her diminishes rapidly. But equally as fast is the growing feeling of dread, arising too quickly for her to comprehend. The tips of her fingers and toes are numb, the feeling lost sometime during the man's weighty speech. Riza can feel her forehead sticky with sweat, her head throbbing painfully as a violent blow to the face. Why must he mention her father? What good would it do comparing her to him beside stir up some upsetting memories? Worst yet, is it true that she really takes after him?

She can picture her father as vivid as the large clock in the room. A sinister smile, a maniacal laugh from the confines of the sanatorium. His long, yellow hair and gaunt face wispy with smoke before finally transforming into her own face, chiseled at the edges.

Shuddering, Riza finally slumps in defeat. Her lips whimper, rippling with agony, "Rebecca…"

Immediately, Rebecca draws her into an embrace, unrelenting and secured around her quivering form. She rubs Riza's back softly, up and down, over and over. "It's okay, Ri. Everything will be fine. You will be fine."

Hiding red-rimmed eyes in the crook of her friend's neck, Riza exhales a trembling breath, her limbs uncontrollable. Shakily, she surrenders to the comfort, wrapping her arms around her friend's shoulders with the yearning for the day to end.

Around her legs, Riza feels a loose coil of warmth drifting through her skin. Stumbling her sight downward, she discovers Elio, joining his Aunt Becca in her camaraderie, his pool of untidy, black hair lolling against Riza's waist. The boy looks up, a naive gaze that exhibits no understanding of his mother's plight. Still, his hug is strapping and firm around her figure, a strangely consoling sensation amidst the chaos.

When the boy grins - his widest, silliest grin - Riza reflexively returns a fond smile, settling an arm down to brush the boy's messy strands. The space suddenly feels familiar once again, buzzing with the rigorous flow of a life five years in the making.

As Rebecca untwines herself from Riza, the mother drops to her knees. She envelopes her son tightly, protectively, as if apologizing for her weakness, for wavering in her conviction, through the gesture. The scent of baby powder is there, faint on Elio, and the refuge of his small arms around her neck is calming, anchoring her to a renewed vow:

Her son will always be first.


	12. the thoughts inside our heads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter should really be called "How to Torture Roy-boy 101 by Riza Hawkeye." Enjoy :)

**Lyon, October 18, 1942**

The fourth day.

As the amber streak of dusk absconds beneath the mountain range of Rhône-Alpes, a couple of silhouettes, both cosseted in thick, black parkas, emerge from the shadowy woodlands. With the lightest steps they float the upward slope of the terrain, settling behind a neatly trimmed hedgerow, tall enough to conceal their bodies from the eyes of watchful soldiers.

Mr Arnaud's secret journal takes them one hour away from the border of Lyon. Nestled within the countryside and encircled by towering trees stands a lofty château made of eggshell-tinted bricks. Its rooftops are triangular, sharp at the peak, fanning out like an upside down grey book to shroud any scheming within. Even with a hint of neglect, the exterior discolored and cobwebbed, the structure radiates a magnificent aura, resembling something out a history book complete with the snippets of the lives of the dukes and duchesses who have resided there in years past.

It's the fourth day now.

And the same as the previous days, dim, golden light flickers from the windows below the gable, signaling activities, soldiers hard at work. It is unclear what kind of operation is being conducted inside. But as things stand, with the multitude of visitors ranging from military heads of the Waffen-SS to German scientists, the idea of infiltrating the château with only the two of them is growing all the more daunting by the second.

"Can I borrow that?" Roy asks hushedly.

Handing the binocular over, Riza hides the bottom half of her face inside the lip of her jacket. The autumn wind is as fickle as a newborn baby in this side of town. One night it is calm, another night feels as though a tornado would sweep them both away.

"Cold?"

Silently, she nods, her teeth gritting.

Roy crouches near, touching his shoulder against hers, huddling for heat. She reciprocates his gesture, snuggling even closer until they are pressed at the hips. A wave of warmth emanates slowly from her bulky parka. The earthy scent of soil and mist is gradually overcome by a hint of lavender. Though Roy's shivering body craves the added heat, their propinquity also creeps into his mind more often than it should. With his eyes glued to the circular viewfinder, he mutters, "You know it's only going to get colder."

Keeping her eyes forward, Riza replies with a slight tremble, "I know."

"I can hug you if you want," Roy suggests in a voice more shaky than he cares to admit while shooting her a sidelong glance. When he detects a rolling of her eyes in his periphery, he says with a playful chuckle, "I don't bite, Riza, you know that. And we're both cold. It's a win-win."

She sends a mock-smile his way. "You don't bite. But I might." Then, snatching the binocular from his hands, she says curtly, "Roy, can you take out the blueprint?"

With her attention focused on the side entrance, Roy's hands struggle with their canvas sack. The blueprint of the château is flimsy and thin, the harsh wind curling its edges. Placing rocks to hold it in place, his index finger traces the lines of white to search the exact placement of the door. 'X's on the paper mark the spots where soldiers with rifles strapped on their shoulders roam about the ground. There is at least eight at any given time based on the last three days. Tonight, there is less. Only six.

Collecting Roy's pocket watch from their bag, Riza squints her eyes, attempting to read the hands of the clock. "It's about… eight-fifteen now and the new shift started a few minutes ago. The time seems pretty consistent," Riza notes, concentration etched on her forehead. "But for some reason this new guard keeps wandering around that window. I think we should find another way to get in. Just in case."

Roy hums, staring at the soldier in question, who is circling absentmindedly beside their proposed entryway. "Can we climb that window in less than two minutes? Before the new shift starts? If we can do that, I think we're fine."

"It's quite high. Maybe if we both climb in at the same time? Don't worry, I won't leave you behind," she jests, smirking his way.

"You mean, I won't leave  _you_  behind when I get in first," Roy teases, pointing his finger at her. "I'll even pull you up if you have trouble."

Lowering her binocular, she stares at him with a single brow raised, daring him, "I bet you I can get in first."

Smugly, Roy says, "And what will you give me if you can't?"

"I'll give you anything you want, Mr Mustang," Riza replies, an alluring smile playing on her lips.

Roy stares at her, dumbfounded, his reply snagged in his throat. The cool rush of air hitting his face departs as rapidly as the accumulated heat on his cheeks. _Is that question supposed to be taken innocently?_

This part of the mission is spontaneous and far more arduous than simply retrieving a location from Mr Arnaud's resplendent party -  _a task they have failed to do_. Instead of celebrating the success of their first assignment with a sip of wine in the comfort of their safehouse, here they are bracing the whims of the weather, lightly breezy one minute, freezing the next. Everything has been pushed back by a week. From the time it takes Trudy (who has been working so diligently) to obtain the blueprint, to the number of days they have spent canvassing the ground.

But Roy's complaints are neatly stored in the back of his mind as he peers up at the sky. It's terrible, really, this appreciation for the despondent weather at the expense of his partner's wellbeing. As someone who usually despises cloudy days, which normally steers his morning in the wrong direction, Roy is secretly grateful to have a continuous week-long of it. Thunder would blare. Then rain follows.

With a sheepish gaze, her arms clutching her pillow, Riza would tumble into his bunk these stormy nights, seeking solace in the narrow space. Several consecutive days now. They are at a point where the line of professionalism is undoubtedly blurred by each slumber. When the sky isn't blanched by the tendrils of lightning, she'd find her own bed satisfactory. But as the weather turns dreary (as it always has), one telling look from her and Roy understands. He would then slip under the blanket beside her, not a word exchanged.

And Riza. She has shown no signs of resistance to his sneaky embrace, to the moment when his arm curls around her waist, resting it there with more than the notion of simply protecting. On the contrary, with her back flushed against his chest, she returns his unseemly gesture with a timid touch. She'd ghost the tip of her finger through the valleys and troughs of his knuckles, slow and tender, as if memorizing the curvature. Then she would wrap his hand with her own, holding it there through the night. How is he supposed to react to these unmistakable hints of affection?

And yet, this is where he draws the line. Too scared to move forward with too much at stake. In the stern reminder of his superior, "There is no room for feelings in the field. It will only hinder the mission." The man is probably right.

But as he studies the clouds, thick and heavy with rain, his mouth quirks upward in furtive delight. It seems it will be a downpour tonight.

"Roy?"

He shakes his head, summoning his focus. "Huh? What?"

"Did you figure out a different way to get in?"

Swiftly, he replies, mumbling, "Well, that window is our best chance..." His finger snakes through the blueprint, searching for another possible inlet. "There  _is_  a back entrance by the kitchen. Although I don't know how good of an idea it is to enter through a door, but we can check it out."

"Then let's get moving," she proposes, dropping the binocular to hang low around her neck. "Maybe we can disguise as a cook or something."

As quiet as mice, the agents steal into the darkness. They pursue a maze of dense thicket, concealing their motions behind them. When they arrive at a small clearing with a good view of the back entrance, Roy becomes overjoyed at the absence of soldiers. Standing before them are cooks, their toque hats limp around the strap of their aprons. They converse with each other, a coil of smoke rooting from their fingers.

"This is a possible entryway," Riza infers.

Roy nods, agreeing. "Let's monitor."

Reconnaissance has never been Roy's strong suit. It tests his patience, his ability to stay focused while remaining idle. As important as it is to scout, to conceive every possible situation and prepare remedy, he can't help but feel unproductive. A man of action himself, Roy basks in the thrill of imminent danger, with the enemies breathing down his neck.

Riza, however, is burgeoning with excitement. There's a radiant glint in her eyes that wasn't there before. Her expression is colored with intrigue, enhancing the attractiveness about her. Her sparkly teeth dig into her bottom lip in anticipation, seemingly examining every little detail. Whisking the magnification piece of the binocular, Riza roosts with admirable perseverance, patient, like a sniper gauging her target.

Intuitively, Roy remarks, "So, you never told me why you do this."

Her features wrinkle with confusion. She tilts her head slightly.

"Why you've become a field agent," he clarifies.

With her focus averted from him, Riza responds softly, "I guess I never did."

"How about we play a game?" Roy poses casually.

"What do you have in mind?"

"I ask a question and you answer truthfully," he supplies with a smile, "then we take turn."

Lowering the gadget in her hands, Riza answers, "Alright. Seems simple enough."

Roy perches beside her and folds his legs, relaxing his spine as his palms meet the soil beneath, his arms propping like pillars. Glancing at her, he asks, "What kind of person were you before all of this?"

Promptly, she shakes with laughter. "That's kind of a broad question, don't you think? But I don't think I've really changed all that much." Mirroring his pose, with the bulge of her knee in contact with his, she narrates, "I'm still the same person as I was when I attended university. The only difference is that now I know what I want out of life."

"Oh? And what would that be?"

Her brows lift in amusement. "I thought this game is played with you asking  _a_  question and I answer. That's  _two_  questions."

He chuckles. "How perceptive. Right you are. Go ahead, it's your turn."

Riza seems to be lost in thought, her gaze bound at the ground. Looking up at him, she inquires, sincerely, "Have you always been so… overprotective?"

"I'm overprotective?" Roy asks aloud, confused.

She nods with confirmation.

Taking a second to ponder, Roy attempts to make sense of her question. He supposes he has only been described this way by his aunt, his close friends. Maybe by the one or two colleagues he had had the pleasure working long enough with. Then, he peeks at the woman next to him, who triggers a sudden pounding of his heart. Reluctantly, he concludes, "I guess I'm only overprotective when it comes to things that are important to me..."

With a slight purse of her mouth and her brows knitting in consideration, she stares at him. What could she interpret from his statement, Roy wonders? She's mute, merely scrutinizing him with visible lines on her forehead, as if trying to read his mind. The air surrounding them billows awkwardly as the seconds flee. Only when the noise of the wind whistles does Roy realize the need to address the speechlessness. He amends quickly, "So... what are those life ambitions that you mentioned earlier?"

She blinks in surprise. "Oh." Eluding his gaze now, she says, "It's just the typical story of a girl who wanted to make the world a better place…" Chuckling lightheartedly, she continues, "I've always had this sense of responsibility to help people. I reckon I got it from my mother, who was a volunteer nurse during the First World War. But I didn't study to be a nurse. I didn't think I was smart enough for that. Instead, I studied English because I thought I could be a teacher somewhere in an impoverished country, working with children."

Eagerly, with an approving smile, Roy assents, "I know how that feels. I want to do as much as I can for the country, too. I chose to study chemistry because I thought I'd be able to contribute to the advancement of medicine."

Riza fixes her spine upright. "But your field of study was nuclear power...?"

Roy mimics her, his back straightening to full height. His fingers toy with the swaying grass in front of him, plucking a select few. "Well, not quite. I was a chemistry student who took interest in nuclear fission during my fourth year, which became the subject of my graduate thesis. After graduation, the military approached me about it. They said they have a team of 'like-minded scientists' and a fully-funded research, so I went on to accept their offer and pursued a doctoral in it. But I left not long after and assumed a teaching post at Berkeley."

Her reaction is an acknowledging hum. Then wittily, she remarks, "I don't think one would ever think of a chemistry professor as an intelligence agent."

Stealing a glimpse at her, Roy responds with a handsome smile, saying, "And surely one would never think of an English student as a femme fatale."

She laughs in agreement. "Touché."

From beyond the hedges, a loud, dragging screech interferes, followed by the sound of door slamming against its frame. When Roy cranks himself up just enough to survey the activity, he finds that the cooks have gone. In their place is an eerie silence, haunting as a graveyard, with a single wall sconce funneling a muted light at the dirt path. There are no soldiers abound, the back entrance absolutely devoid of souls.

"Everyone's gone," Roy announces, drawing circles with his quivering finger on the blueprint before marking his 'X' with a pen, "Maybe we can just enter through here."

"Here. Give me your hands," Riza commands softly. Disentangling the thin scarf around her neck, she takes his frigid hands, nursing them with the warmth of the fabric. Tidily, with her gloved hands, she wraps the material around his numb skin like a roll of bandage.

"You would've made a wonderful nurse, Riza," he comments, enjoying the afforded heat. When she says nothing in response, he adds, "So what's in it for you? This whole spy thing?"

She tilts her head up, unhurriedly dropping his hands from her grip. "It's not for me, really. It's the idea that I could benefit someone and that's enough for me."

It's such a simple answer, Roy ruminates. But to him, it reveals so much about her character. He swells with admiration, respect, even this peculiar sense of devotion to take care of her. With this admission, a strong concern for her safety unnerves him. How can he convince her to stay put at the safehouse?

"How about you?" she asks, gliding her palms over the uneven turf now that her hands are free.

Caught unaware, he spits out some self-deprecating reply, "I do it for the glory, of course. The fame, women, and money."

Riza laughs mirthlessly, short and curt. "Of course you would."

He rectifies, stumbling over his words, "Umm, it's a joke... You know I'm just joking... right?"

She nods with a disarming smile, tucking loose strands behind her ear. "What's the real story? How  _and_  why did Professor Mustang become Agent Mustang?"

"Let's start with the how," Roy proffers, chuckling. "I'm sure you've heard about the tale of Icarus."

She nods. "I have."

"He flew too close to the sun and Apollo melted his wings-"

"Helios," she interrupts affably.

His brows crease. "Sorry?"

Smiling bashfully, she explains, " _Helios_  melted his wings. I mean, yes, Apollo is the god of sun in later Greek literature. But technically Helios was the one who rode the chariot across the sky and illuminated the earth. It's just like Atlas. Many people think he's holding the world together, but he's actually supporting the heavens with his hands." Looking up at his perplexed expression, she apologizes with an embarrassment about her, stammering, "I'm sorry... Please, continue."

"You are one of a kind, Riza Hawkeye," Roy declares with an incredulous laughter. "Well anyway, everytime we come close to discovery, something would go wrong - someone's beard got singed, research notes went missing…" Removing the scarf from his hands, he flips his palms up heavenward, presenting them to her. "I've still got scars on my palms from second-degree burns. It's almost like a warning to stop messing with the order of the world. And that's when I quit. Helios has got the right idea there. We flew too close to the sun and should be stopped before any damage could be done."

Gently, Riza captures his hands, bringing them close to her face to scour the marks on his skin. She coddles them within her dark leather gloves, piling heat with the tautness of her grasp. When she finally replies, it is not a response to his story but to something utterly unexpected. "Your hands are so cold, Roy," she murmurs.

For a brief moment, Roy loses his train of thought, his mind straying instead to her gentle ministration. With sheer willpower, he resumes his story, though not without a distracted tone that interlopes every now and then and random, conspicuous stares at her hands, "I uh... realized a little too late that this whole nuclear power business is really just about creating the most powerful weapon... In a way, I'm glad I'm no longer a part of it. But... I still teach the subject... It's funny how the world works..."

She removes her gloves, pinning the article underneath her legs. And with her naked hands she gathers his, rubbing a warm motion on his skin, creating friction, over and over. The sensation undulates not only heat throughout his limbs but also an unsolicited current of electricity, the kind that he's felt maybe only one other time in his life - from his brief relationship with the smart and beautiful research assistant during his third year at university. In this instance Roy finally understands the extent of how deep he has fallen for her, his heart now at the mercy of his partner.

Becoming unsure of what to say, he rambles on, bouncing away a shy gaze when she looks at him, "When the war started, they needed someone with a background in chemistry for a covert mission... They asked if I could do it. I was young and eager. In their eyes, the perfect candidate for an agent... And that's how I became Agent Mustang..."

Riza acknowledges with a smile. "That's quite a story." Observantly, she remarks, "The scars aren't too noticeable. Does it still hurt?"

"No. It's just bothersome when I write…"

The next few seconds sends his heart soaring to the sky. He forgets where they are, his hearing no longer attuning for the sound of footsteps or chatter beyond the hedges. Arrestingly, in this moment, Riza Hawkeye is his entire focus.

With the pad of her thumb Riza traces the thickened area on his palm, running over the raised lesion, up and down, again and again. The mindful touch she bestows upon it is so feather-light, as if pressing her finger firmer would elicit a painful scream from the man. Startling him, she lifts his hand up to her mouth, slowly, drawing it close and blowing hot vapor onto it. Finally, brushing her lips against the scar there, she showers it delicate kisses, the coldness of her cheeks made known against his skin. "There. I hope that helps."

Robbed of his mind, Roy mumbles something incoherent. The ability to think escapes him as fast as a cheetah running into the distance.

Riza laughs mildly, as though she's done nothing out of the ordinary. Lowering his hand onto her lap, she holds it there. "And now you have to tell me the  _why_."

Nervously, with racing pulse, Roy squeezes her hands. "Ahh it's simple, really... As an agent I feel I can dive into the center of the problem with my full potential… You know my parents were doctors. During World War I, they treated poor citizens with ill-health and the malnourished children... Then the Great Depression made everything worse, and the world just seemed so bleak. It's a fragile time and I want to do as much as I can. At this rate, I don't know if I'll ever leave the military..."

Though her approval has not always been at the forefront of his mind, it matters a lot now. He wants to know what she thinks of him, how much of it is agreeable, disagreeable. And a semblance of relief washes over him when she burrows the side of her head against his shoulder, nesting it there comfortably. "Then you do what you have to do," she says with a sincere tone, smiling.

If only he can close his eyes and surrender to the moment. Except they still have a job to do. Their assignment looms over them, hulking, terrorizing them with its labyrinth of obstacles. A pack of soldiers stand in wait, each one strapped with a weapon that will surely inch them to their demise. What will happen to them at this place, at this hour, tomorrow? Will they find what they're looking for? There's a persistent fear clutching in his chest, an urgency to do something about it as his thoughts drift to the morbid thought of death. He really should lock Riza in the room, Roy decides, he'll finish this assignment alone.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Riza asks suddenly.

He looks at her, seeing a curiosity in her eyes. "No. No, I don't. Do you... have a boyfriend?"

"I have the best boyfriend in the whole universe," she answers, smiling.

His heart stops.

Amused, Riza giggles, leaning into his ear as if about to whisper, "My boyfriend is my rescue dog, Black Hayate. He keeps me company in time of need."

"If your dog's your boyfriend then my girlfriend is my library of books," quips Roy in relief, laughing.

But his relief is short-lived. A punishing beam of yellow approaches, piercing small cylinders of light through the thick bush. The crunch of gravels crackle in the distance, the sound of motor whirring then wheezing to an alarming silence. The two agents dash to the edge of the rectangular shrubbery, peering their heads out, Roy investigating the movement with the binocular glued to his eyes.

A large, green truck stops in front of the back entrance, obstructing their view of the door. Carrying a deck of soldiers in its trunk, Roy watches as, one by one, they exit the vehicle. Their grey-green uniform appears black in the dark, and they form two squares, raising large trunks above their heads. They look like a group of ants hauling a grain of rice. There are no weapons visible, not in their hands nor around their shoulders and belts. But it doesn't mean they're not within reach.

Something in German is being shouted from the door, and the transporting soldiers shuffle their feet hurriedly, disappearing inside the building with the bulky item on their heads. Then more soldiers emerge, this time with rifles strapped on them. Ten soldiers. Twenty soldiers. Someone of a higher rank - as distinguished by his insignia, an  _Obersturmbannführer_  or Lieutenant-Colonel - surfaces from behind the truck, tall with a decorous gait of a military commander. He extends his arm, pointing left and right, ordering the uniformed men to fetch something from the trunk.

"I hope they're not here to stay," Roy whispers, all hopes sinking to the depth of his stomach. "I don't know how we'll go in undetected with this many soldiers around..."

"Maybe it's just tonight," Riza replies hesitantly, examining the ground with her bare vision. But her tone is laced with doubt, "Maybe..."

A handful of suitcases materialize from the trunk - large ones - until they stack up like a small hill by the foyer. At this, Roy concludes the soldiers are here to stay. But instead of perfecting their strategy with this new problem in their way, all he can think about is how to persuade Riza to stay back tomorrow. Perhaps he can send her on a lengthy supply run... Or perhaps he can wake up hours sooner and sneaks out while she's still fast asleep… Or perhaps he really should lock her in the room...

Everything is quiet once again as the soldiers claim their residency within the château.

It is time to leave, Roy decides. Devise a new strategy. Convince her to stay back… But when Roy arises to stand, an oppressively bright glare encapsulates him in a spotlight.

Or almost.

The next sequence of events eludes him as abruptly as the sharp pain prickling his body. He rolls down the steep hill, toppling over damp moss and pinecones. Protruding branches slap his face on the way down, scratching his cheeks and neck, a slight sting like a knife cut across his skin. A cloud of dirt rises from the ground when his tumble is halted by a dense, prickly bush. He coughs, gasping for clean air, as dust and soot enter his lungs. Something hard and coarse pokes his head. His right foot throbs, as though it's been bent against its joint. But as he twists his foot side to side, he is relieved to find that it's been spared from injury.

Then his memory returns.

With a swift kick, Riza swept his ankle, sending him whirling into the forest. Though his body aches, covered with mud, his partner has just saved him from a grievous fate. A broken bone would have been preferable than being caught by an SS officer. He should have employed more caution; what had happened back there would have sent him packing for a retraining.

At the scrunching sound of dried leaves, his chin tilts up. From somewhere behind him, Riza calls his name, a strained whisper, loud enough for him to hear but quietly so as to not attract attention. When she discovers him, she crows from the distance, running towards him with an apology, "Roy! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to kick you so haaa-ahh!"

But as he props himself up to face her, his elbows bent on the ground, he sees her foot trip over a jutting root from somewhere in the earth. She plunges head first, flying towards a bed of leaves with her arms flailing forward. And her face would have been marred with soil, scraped by rough pebbles, if Roy hadn't slid over to catch her.

He grunts, the air knocked out of his lungs, as she hits him with her full weight. With her body laying atop his, she stirs, groaning with pain.

Roy asks, holding the back of her head where her hand had been, "Riza, are you okay?" Her bun is set free, sprouting long strands of gold into an attractive mess. One by one, he plucks the crushed leaves from her back, brushing the dirt from her parka. Then he hears her muffled laughter, vibrating on his chest as she buries her face in his jacket.

"Riza?"

She looks up at him, her cheeks stretching wide with a silly grin. Unable to contain herself, Riza crashes her palm to her mouth, stifling her sound, her shoulders shaking with delight.

Though confused, her infectious laughter reaches him. His body ripples with mirth, rustling the leaves beneath. And when she releases her hand, giggling with a most unrestrained joy, Roy instinctively presses his soiled fingers to her lips, shushing her.

Carefully, she sits up, straddling his thighs. Presenting him an endearing smile, she says, "Sorry about the kick."

Roy pushes himself upright, one hand on the ground for support, the other wiping off the specks of black on her lips. With a grateful chuckle, he says, his thumb fondly stroking the corner of her mouth, "You saved my life.  _Again_. I really  _should_  keep you around."

"Maybe you should," she replies with a heartful giggle, bringing his thumb to her lips, dawdling it there.

Then, as if something unacknowledged has been let loose, they stare at each other wordlessly, mouth parting without a sound. They stay like that for a brief moment, piercing into each other's eyes with a powerful tension, like a dam ready to burst. If Roy thinks that he has been the only one fighting the urge to keep intimacy at bay, then he now knows that he's been wrong.

Caressing her cheek with the gentlest of touch, Roy gingerly weaves his fingers into her tangled hair, moving carefully to cup the back of her head. He leans in, slow and steady, drawing her mouth closer to his, inch by inch. Riza doesn't budge. But she also doesn't resist. She simply stares motionless. But when her lips is only a hot breath away, Riza impatiently pulls his collar and bridges their gap, urgent and desperate, like a starving wolf.

When their mouths collide, it is not the most languid of kiss. He presses them hard against hers, in a longer and demanding sort of way, until he can taste the sweet trace of red wine. He scrapes her chin and cheeks with his short stubble, and Riza gives him permission by deepening the kiss, nipping at his bottom lip. Her fingers twist into his hair, gripping it roughly. And Roy returns the lust by rolling her onto the ground, letting his mouth roam where it wants. Pinning her below him, he loses himself in the scent of her perfume by trailing small kisses along her jaw. Eagerly, Riza fans her fingers on both of his cheeks, pulling his mouth back into hers once again with unreserved desire.

As their lips separate, Roy hauls in a deep breath, gasping, smelling the earth around him. With Riza below him, her appearance even more disheveled than before, he chuckles, feeling the rush of heat into his face. Reveling in the moment, he says, his finger toying with her stray string of hair, "What did I do to deserve that?"

Humming a smile, she says, "I don't know. I suppose you did something right."

"How can I convince you to stay put tomorrow?" he asks playfully. Though he means every word of it.

Riza, however, seems to catch his true intention, deciphering past his tone and mischievous appearance. Immediately, her expression darkens, the buoyant glaze in her eyes vanishing into dust. "What do you mean, Roy?" she asks suspiciously, "are you saying I shouldn't go back out here with you?

It is too late to retract his question.

"Do you think I'm not capable?" she charges with a harsh tone, "or is it because we  _kissed_  and now you think you have the right to tell me that?"

Unsure of what to say, Roy simply hovers over her mutely, unmoving. He hears the loud gulp of his saliva traveling down his throat as he watches her flinch under him. His heart begins to race, harder, faster. When he continues to produce no answer, Riza shoves him by the shoulder, firm, releasing herself from his fold.

"I knew it. This never should have happened…" Riza says with remorse, a disappointed smile curving her lips. Hopping herself up, she smooths her attire, sweeping sticky substance off her jacket. With one courteous hand, she offers to pull him up, which Roy takes with reluctance.

"I'm sorry… It's just, I l-" Roy explains, reaching for her arm.

She evades his grip, cutting off his speech by thrusting their canvas sack into his chest with more strength than necessary. Confronting the upward slope, Riza fully turns her back to him to start her trek up the hill. With one last look, she turns to face him, her gaze stern. "We have a job to do and we need to stay focused." Pointing to herself and then to him, she says, her voice as severe as the frigid temperature, " _This_  will only get in the way."

Far from his prediction, rain doesn't fall down that night. The sky is as clear as a summer day, without a brush of clouds, the stars bright and visible against the ocean of black. But even with such a hopeful image, everything around him is the opposite, gloomy and miserable. As Roy tosses and turns in his cot, forfeiting repose, he sees a flash of orange in the distance, behind a silhouette of trees - a blinding streak. Gradually, the world flourishes with color, rose-pink, then a wispy blue.

He groans, sinking his face into his pillow before facing the sleeping woman on the bed across from him. Staring at her back, he ignores the ache from his clenching jaw. Aside from the kiss, overwhelming concern for her stings his thoughts like a swarm of bees. Turning away from his view of her, he confronts the ceiling. He holds his breath, eyes wide open.

Tomorrow has arrived.


	13. you see inside my soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Happy Valentine's Day! An important chapter from Roy's perspective before we go back to 1942. I hope you enjoy!

**Los Angeles, July 13, 1948**

Roy wriggles in his seat, trying to find that cozy spot between the bottom cushion and the backrest. Opposite him, the black-haired woman proceeds to occupy a wingback chair, sliding a refill of lemonade across while her steady gaze peruses between him and the napping bundle in her guest room. With his fingers wrapped around the concoction, Roy extricates himself from the dryness in his throat, guzzling, the cool liquid lulling his hot skin and his thoughts.

Fatherhood has finally started to sink in. To Roy, a big part of it is being in a constant state of panic, with his overactive imagination playing a significant role. His skin would tingle with worry and fear for when, and if, his son would bump his head on another swing set or get snatched away when he isn't looking. But alongside these emotions, there's joy and fascination. Joy manifests itself often and constant. But fascination toys with him on a daily basis.

Yesterday, for the first time since he's arrived, Elio snuck into Roy's room, his expression a little more than curious. Roy was facing the mirror, dressing himself for the day, his fingers working deftly through the buttons on his blue shirt. After chirping a comment about his favorite color, Elio stood beside him, mimicking his father, the glass reflecting the imitated gestures as the boy followed and adjusted his own collar. In that instance, Roy's breath hitched. The small face staring back at him was his own, had he been thirty years younger.

Roy suddenly had the urge to dig through his parents' set of photographs, quietly collecting dust in the corner of their attic, discovered shortly after their deaths. On the prints were his parents and himself as a child, roughly the same age as his own son now. He remembered studying his own round, little face, the slant of his eyes less delicate then, the shallow deviation on his nose invisible with the limitation of an old camera. But Roy could have sworn, if he had the picture in his hand right now, the boy in the yellow-stained print would project the boy standing beside him in the mirror.

And today. Nearby an abandoned railroad track, in the less developed part of the city, Roy and Elio had been preoccupied with a new excitement. Wound around Elio's short fingers was an unsophisticated slingshot, scraped together from a fallen tree branch and an elastic band Roy had found on the kitchen counter. His son had told him he wanted to learn how to shoot like "the older boys" he once saw at the county fair. Roy conceded, thinking Riza wouldn't have any opposition to the activity.

During their first round of shooting, the father's head had tilted in curiosity, his brows wrinkled in wonder. Rough indentations were jabbed on the robust trunk, shallow, circular depressions all along the rim of the chalk-drawn target. None of Elio's marble-sized rocks had hit bullseye. But they all came pretty close. Has Riza been teaching him how to shoot? Or is this an innate talent he supposedly inherited from his mother?

"What are you thinking?"

His pensive gaze darts towards the woman, her deep, rumbling voice jolting him from reverie.

"You look as if you've just been given a complex equation to solve," says Izumi, regarding his crumpled appearance, "your wrinkles will be forever etched on your forehead if you keep doing that."

"Sorry Izumi, I was just thinking about Elio. His accuracy with the slingshot is impressive for a kid his age. The resemblance is..." Roy muses aloud, pausing, a small smile marching across his lips.

"Uncanny?" Izumi chortles, finishing the word that hasn't yet left his mouth. "You think he got it from Riza?"

"He definitely did."

Izumi Curtis dresses like one would expect of a homemaker, her floral apron over white pinafore, and long, braided hair nestled over one shoulder. But outside of this image belies a former combat instructor, one of the best in the country, her lessons as strict as the countenance she wore as she pinned muscle-bound men onto the floor. Roy was one of them, minus the burly muscles. But even with her sternness and rigidity, she's always been patient and encouraging. One of the reasons young Roy was able to pour his woes and distress for her attending ears to listen.

But her mantle was hung not long after the Second World War began. Her mastery with her punches and kicks gradually overlooked; her partial Japanese heritage ensured her of this. Instead of being sent to  _the_  camp, the country wordlessly thanked her by sending her home to her caring husband, who was dishing out ideas for their newly invested meat stall on the street of Los Angeles. If she had been bitter with resentment, Roy couldn't see it. Even now, as she sits across from him intense and sharp-edged, he still can't see it.

"I'm sure you remember how very mediocre my shooting skill was," Roy reminisces fondly, "that's why I am certain Elio did  _not_  inherit that from me. If he inherited it at all, that is. Aside from that, I know he's got Riza's diligence and meticulousness, thank God." Sighing contently, he adds, his limbs shuddering with elation, a crowd of stars in his eyes, "But Elio looks just like me… Well, younger and much cuter. But  _me_. Isn't that just… wonderful?"

"You're in love, Roy," Izumi says, her teasing fused with a revealing chuckle. "Don't let the boy down, yeah? He's a good kid."

"I want to be with them, I've told Riza that much. But she insists that I stay away from this undercover stuff, too."

"And Riza's right to be thinking this way." Izumi nods with her arms twined below her chest, her stare now dark and solemn. "You have a responsibility to your family, Roy. You're with kid now."

"I'm not disagreeing with her or you. In fact, I wholeheartedly agree," Roy confesses, earnestly. But he begins to argue, "it's just... how can I still" - he is mute for a brief moment, searching for the correct word - " _contribute_  without being in the middle of  _it_?"

Izumi retorts, though not harshly, "You're a clever fella. Think of something with that large brain of yours."

"Any suggestions?"

"No university is going to turn down a war hero," she scoffs, a shrewd twist on her face.

"You're saying I should get my teaching post back?" Roy looks at her as though she's crazed, disbelieving. "I don't exactly want to stir up interest in nuclear weapon after what happened. And that was precisely the subject I taught."

"Perhaps you can teach your students the harmful effects of chemical weapons, prevent future generations from ruining themselves." As she says this, Roy wonders if she harbors any hatred for the country, with its desperation for victory, leading to the annihilation of her motherland until they reek of deaths and diseases. He, too, who suffers from the occasional bouts of guilt that come with being part of the nuclear research team during its infancy, can't help but bloat with nauseating sentiments at the atrocity.

"I don't know," Roy murmurs, reluctant. "Constantly reminding the military on its harmful effect seems more valuable than telling a group of eager minds of its power. Who knows what that would unleash..."

Then with severe passion, as if the weight of Roy's decision will affect her own family, Izumi crows, chastising, "Wouldn't you rather be here raising your son so he can grow up to be the best man he can be? The poor boy's already lived long enough without his father. And Riza too. Help her for God's sake. Being a single mother is tough. Go talk to Edward's mother if you need some convincing; she would know what that's like."

The cogs in his brain are hard at work yet again for a solution that has been robbing him of sleep, considering. A river of emotions streams at the thought of Riza and Elio. Of all the times lost, of the moments surrendered, unable to be summoned back into existence.

With only a thin wall separating him and Riza, Roy often ponders if she's sound asleep or if her rest has been stolen from her as it has been from him. He imagines a defeated sigh from her chest, long and winded, about anything and everything out of her control. Then he'd flirt with the idea of visiting her there, slipping beside her with comforting arms around her delicate figure. Elio would then knock at the door, wheedling his way to their bed, and Roy would gladly create a space for the boy to join, right in the center between him and her. Then a future with Elio and Riza, on whom he has every intention of bestowing his name, will keep him entertained for the next hour, painted with happiness and drowned in laughter.

But with a sudden projection of a war-ravaged land on his wakeful mind, his lungs would constrict, as though submerged by strong laps of waves. The thin cots at his parents' makeshift clinic would burgeon into life, crowded with the old and the young, stripped of their homes and the financial means to keep their lives afloat. And the haunting image of soot-smeared children, miserably thin, barely Elio's age, lying unsheltered on the rat-infested alley of Jülich, intrudes like unfinished business that needs attending now.

Is it this difficult to want to do his best for his family  _and_  for his country?

"Think of Riza. Think of Elio," calls Izumi, pulling him back. "Think of Riza. Think of Elio," she repeats, chanting like a Tibetan monk, as though she can see the uncertainty of his heart. "I get you want - no,  _need_  - to fix the world from the inside out. You've always been this way. But damnit Roy, what if you die? You think Riza doesn't worry about you?"

Not that he hasn't thought of that before. But with his willingness to survive and his eagerness to right the wrong to send him home each time, the gripping hand of death just seems implausible. "I'm planning to return home from my missions. All of them."

Her forehead creases with scorn. "And you think that's assurance enough for her? You could die at any moment, you selfish bastard. You're not immortal."

"Yeah, you're right... Of course," he scoffs with a wistful smile, the pain in his chest rearing back. Any sensible person would concur. "I'll think of something. I promise."

"Not to me. You should promise  _her_  that."

An hour ebbs away as conversations about Izumi's life and her husband enter and congregate the space. Roy learns about her inability to conceive, a bead of tears pooling in her eyes as she speaks, her voice raw with uncontrollable emotions. And he also learns that, just like him now, Izumi was throbbing with frustration after her expedited leave, scrambling for ways to help the cause. "A ton of meat sent to the frontline. That's all it took to make me feel better," she says, self-deprecatingly. "But if I could get over my uselessness, I'm sure you can, too." And the longer they talk of family and better days, the more swayed Roy becomes, solidifying his desire to remain with Riza and Elio with each word uttered.

"Izumi, before I forget, I want to thank you for the telegram. I wouldn't have found her if it weren't for you," Roy says sincerely, grateful.

"I'm just surprised is all. You've been back in San Francisco for how many weeks now and didn't think to look for her here once? It's only an eight-hour trip, Roy," she ridicules, her tone more amused than anything.

"I telegramed her best friend Rebecca who moved here a few years ago. But all she said was 'Riza doesn't live here, try somewhere else' so I stopped searching in Los Angeles. In hindsight, I figured Riza probably swore her to secrecy or something."

"Do you know why Riza would ask her to do that?" she asks, curious.

He has been wondering himself. "I have a guess or two. One, which doesn't make sense now that I think about it, is that she doesn't want me to be in Elio's life. The second, she doesn't want to deter me from my goals. I did tell her once that I'm most likely going to stay in the military for the rest of my life. And well, what happened between us at the time probably convinced her of that."

"And does the answer matter to you?"

Stopping to think, Roy says truthfully, "Yes… and no. More than anything, I care to know how she feels about me being here. Everything else can wait."

"You're welcome, by the way. You owe me and Sig a nice, expensive dinner."

He laughs. "Consider it done."

"And bring Riza and Elio, too. It's time I introduce myself properly. I feel guilty for lying to her about being a...  _normal_  housewife," she requests, springing from her seat.

"Aren't  _you_  a normal housewife?" Roy remarks with a smirk.

Sauntering to the kitchen, Izumi replies, a pitcher of lemonade in her hand as she returns, "I suppose I am now, yes. But you know what I mean."

From the dark bedroom behind him, Roy hears a quiet shift, a mumbled groan, the swishing sound of blanket being tossed aside. But the small footsteps he expects never emerge from the door. Looking back towards Izumi, he asks, uncertainty in his tone, "Do you think... Elio sees me as his father?"

Confused, she stares at him, drops of the clear liquid straining into the half-filled glass, "He calls you dad, doesn't he? So why not?"

"He calls me dad, but what else is he supposed to call me? Uncle? Roy? Mr Mustang? All of these sound so... unfitting..." he contends.

"You're his father and the boy sees you as his father," she asserts, smiling, sloshing the rest of the liquid to the brim. "And as stringent as Riza is at times, I'm certain she's got a soft spot for you."

He looks up at her, hopeful. "How are you so sure?"

"Have you never cleaned Elio's bag?"

A strange question. "What do you mean?"

Pilfering Elio's rucksack from the floor, Izumi worms her hand inside, traipsing through the various knick-knacks the boy has thrown in. She finds the comfort of her chair. And her eyes finally light up in delight, her mouth sliding into a triumphant grin as wide as a half moon when she stumbles upon something within. Wildly tugging, she abducts a square, beige book, displaying to Roy, "See this book? The Little Prince?"

"What about it? It's Elio's favorite book..." his voice trails, perplexed.

"Look at the second page," she instructs.

Though reluctant, Roy obeys, his gaze anticipating, his breath even more so. Flipping to the second page on the top right corner, he finds Elio's scratchy handwriting, an endearing cursive that curls and curves his first and last name. Elio Mustang. "He takes... my last name...?" Roy announces, surprised, the sudden thumping of his heart startling him.

"Well I'm not sure. The boy introduces himself as Elio Hawkeye to the people he meets. But he also wrote" - she points to his scrawl on the book - " _that_ , so clearly he has heard about  _you_  one time or another."

It must have been Roy's frown or the way he tucks his chin downward that urges the woman to clarify, her explanation meant to cast away his doubt, "Roy, I haven't known Riza for more than a few years - and the woman is  _extremely_  private - but she doesn't seem the type to talk about something like this rather lightly. She's the kind that considers every. Little. Thing."

"She is," he nods, agreeing.

"And if you go into Riza's room, there's a photo of you two on her vanity table behind the perfume bottles. I'm not sure if Elio's seen it or not. But to me, it just goes to show how often she really thinks about you."

The only time Roy ever remembers of a photograph of them is during their mission in France, courtesy of Maes, where his life took a drastic turn, equally happy and downhearted all in that space of time. Presently, however, this announcement simmers his blood to a boil. How could Izumi keep this knowledge to herself? "If you knew about us and the picture why didn't you contact me sooner?" Roy protests, his pitch rising.

She waves him off, dismissing his argument. "Oh calm down, you. I've only found out about it last year. How do you think I know that she was an agent? And it's not like you and I get the chance to speak more than once a year."

"And why were you in her room?" he inquires with suspicion.

"Ahh that," Izumi chuckles, a peculiarity about her look. "I had asked her landlady to... let me into her apartment. I said I left my sweater in there while visiting."

His eyes narrow into surmounting doubt. "And were you actually  _visiting_?"

"What's with that look? I visit her every now and then, you know. I even bring desserts." But she eventually acquiesces to Roy's expression, his relentless gaze upon her, and she admits, "Okay no, I wasn't visiting that day. I was curious about her because after three something years, I know practically nothing about her."

Outwardly, Roy shakes his head, disapproving of her behavior. Yet, he draws a furtive smile, displaying his gladness to the floor, a silent gratitude for his friend's improper conduct that exposes so much about the woman he cares about. He asks, "So you snuck into her place and looked through her things?"

"I couldn't help it. Riza Hawkeye, with her young son and her exquisite British accent, was just too mysterious and too prudent to be your typical neighbor. I had to make sure she's not some spy sent to kill me or Sig." She glances at him warily. "I trust you won't tell her what I've just told you."

"We're even. I won't say anything," he smiles, "But I'm not going to lie to her if she ever asks."

"Thanks. I guess."

A sudden, piercing cry bolts Roy upright, his sturdy chair diving backwards, thudding loudly against the floor. Izumi's chair shrieks, abrupt and ear-splitting, and she dashes for the guest room enclosed in darkness. Roy trails behind her, a step away from his wailing son who calls for his mother. But once Roy crosses into the space, where the wooden white frame of the door divides the outside and inside, he halts.

Izumi kneels, her hand brushing the boy's perspiring forehead, "What's wrong, Elio? Did you have a scary dream?"

Elio doesn't nod nor acknowledge her in any way. He continues to cry, grasping for air with his tiny mouth. A deluge, his tears drench his sweaty, blue shirt into a darker shade, the snot in his nose creeping onto parched lips. All he says is, his voice quivering, "I want mommy…"

Gently, she cossets, blotting his sorrow with a handkerchief, "Your mom's at work right now Elio. Auntie Izumi's here though. Do you want to go back to sleep?"

The boy insists, adamant, his whimper morphing into a sob, "No... I want... my mommy..."

"Mommy will be back soon," Izumi replies, calmly, patiently.

Lingering beneath the low ceiling, Roy merely watches as the scene unfurls before him. By the bedside, Izumi coddles Elio into placidity, shushing him, stroking him, playing the part of a temporary parent Riza has entrusted her with. And then there's him, the newly arrived stranger unsure of his role, willing himself to be useful. In soundless desperation, his breath stills. Does the boy even know that his father's there?

"I want mom." Elio repeats, firmer and louder, his tears gradually ceasing with every sharp intake of short breath.

She coaxes, rubbing his back mildly, "She'll be here soon, Elio. Soon. But not yet."

Then, Elio's fogged up eyes find Roy's, binding, sculpting him into being. The boy roars, arms stretching towards him, Izumi quickly forgotten, "Then I want my daddy!" In that moment Roy feels redeemed. Capable, wanted, needed. Elio's shout for him soothes his heart and eases his lungs, as though the child's plea is the absolution Roy has been seeking. And as soon as Elio's high-pitched shriek drains into the air, Roy can breathe again.

Faster than light, Roy races for his son. Izumi withdraws, stepping aside for Roy to take her spot. The father scoops Elio up into his arms, settling him comfortably around his stable limbs and open shoulder. "I'm here, little man. Dad's here," Roy pacifies, his voice gentle and soft. Sweeping the boy's disarray of hair, he intuitively serenades a tune decades old, a song that reminds him of his loving father. It seems like the right thing to do.

"What were you dreaming about?" Roy whispers, his large, sheltering hand on Elio's back.

The boy mumbles, barely audible, "You and mommy were gone..."

"Gone?" Roy questions, his expression muddled but his tone maintained the same gentleness. "Gone where?"

Burrowing his head in the bend of his father's neck, Elio mewls, his tiny voice trembling with tears that sting the corner of his eyes, "I dunno... Gone somewhere far away…"

"Were you all alone in the dream?"

He feels brisk movement under his chin, and he looks down to see Elio nod. Soothingly, Roy says, prancing out of the gloomy bedroom and into the sunlight-soaked living room, "Well, dad's here, Elio. You're not alone anymore."

Elio nods timidly. Then he mumbles in Roy's ear, "I'm hungry..."

"You're hungry?"

The boy nods again.

"What do you want to eat?"

With a bashful voice, Elio murmurs, "I want pie… mommy makes a good one..."

Roy nods. "Okay. Let's bake some pie when we get home. I'll ask mommy to make two. We can have your favorite apple pie and my favorite key lime pie. One for you and one for me."

"What about for mommy?" the boy raises, sounding offended, memories of his nightmare long abandoned.

"Mommy and I can share," Roy placates, laughing amusedly.

Izumi interrupts from behind, her voice warm with approval, "I can see why Riza fell for you. This suits you."

Spinning to face her, Roy asks, lifting one eyebrow tentatively to find the woman leaning against the door frame, "What suits me?"

"This," she gestures, smiling, her finger tracing imaginary circles in the air, "you being a father."

A faint knock from the foyer lures Izumi to the door. When Riza enters the first thing she scours for is Elio and Roy, her head skittering left and right as she thanks Izumi for her hospitality. Catching Roy's beckoning gaze, Riza approaches. With Elio's back towards Riza, she rounds behind Roy, seeking the child's condition.

"Darling, what happened? Your eyes are red. Have you been crying?" Riza mourns. But the boy is either asleep or too exhausted to reply as no sound ventures forth.

"He had a bad dream," Roy whispers, not wanting to disturb the child.

Elio stirs, and Riza gently asks, extending her palms, "Do you want mummy to hold you?"

Shaking his head curtly, Elio grumbles, facing the other way and winding his arms around Roy's neck securely, "No."

With Elio's unrelenting grip around his neck, Roy strains his request, his sight hedging at the blue canvas pack sitting atop the dining table, "Riza, would you mind grabbing Elio's bag?"

Each step Roy takes is mindful, languid and steady, the boy in his arms peaceful with slumber. Beside him, Riza's measured clacks meet the paved walkway with relative silence, as though afraid the tiniest noise will wake her son.

Elio's rucksack is clutched in front of her, the leather straps tight in her hands, blanketed by her billowing apron. She hasn't spoken a word, seemingly deep in thought, her gaze fastened to the side where the fiery brilliance of dusk masks the row of storefront windows. Every so often she glances at Roy, which he detects through his periphery. And then at Elio, whose drooling face is flat on his father's shoulder, the slobber pooling into a dark cloud on Roy's white shirt.

As Roy glances at her, Riza's inquisitive eyes stumble upon his, widening in quiet surprise. And Roy wouldn't have been able to regard the faintest blush on her cheeks had they been an inch farther apart. Sensing the need to alleviate the reticence, Roy narrates, a boastful grin stamped on his face, "Elio almost made bullseye today. A few more years of practice and I'm sure he'll be one of the best marksmen in the world."

"Did he?" Riza asks, fondness surging in her tone.

His laugh is labored with Elio in his cradle, soft and slightly strained. "Yeah. He's a lot like you, Riza. So precise."

She peers down at the pavement, as if contemplating. Then she looks up. "He's a lot like you too, Roy," she claims. "Not just your looks, but he's inherited some of your personality."

"Oh yeah? Which part?" he asks with great curiosity, his brows lifted high.

"The less annoying part," Riza replies wryly. At Roy's thinning expression, she laughs audibly, jovial and pleasant, the sound singing in his ears. And Roy finds it hard to dismiss the warm bubble in his stomach, dispersing through his body as he joins her delight in concert.

Attentively, Roy studies his son, the father's smile soft and his gaze softer. The way Elio is curled restfully, his face touched by the dwindling daylight, illuminating an expression so pure it feels as though Roy's been offered an invitation to recount a childhood when everything in the world was right and just. He drinks it all in, capturing each line and dimple, hoarding it to memory.

"Elio is you and me combined really," Riza remarks thoughtfully, a shy smile brushing her lips.

A sudden, harsh wind hurls past him, swiping his hair and tottering his gait, causing the child to shift mildly in his arms. In turn, Roy cradles Elio closer, so close he can feel the child's steady heartbeat, his quiet and even breathing, the feeble scent of baby powder all along his skin. And he knows then that he doesn't want to let him go.

Though his mind has swayed, his heart hasn't. It has already made its choice known the moment Roy strode into Bluebird Diner with nothing but a carefully strung proposal in tow. Roy sighs, happy and content. Blissful. And he looks at Riza, and he beams proudly, affirming, "Yes, he is you and me combined. In the best possible way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts, one word or one paragraph (or an essay), now that we are a bit past the halfway point. It could be on this chapter or any of the previous chapters. It would definitely help me understand how you are enjoying this fic so far. :)


	14. our sins and our regrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please note the change in rating to M (Mature/16+). My husband said this could pass as T, but I'm not taking my chances. I hope this won't stop you from reading this fic :)

**Lyon, October 19, 1942**

_Bang!_

The crows protest from the tree branches, fleeing for their lives, their black plumage plummeting towards the ground alongside the shaken leaves. The clouds that weren't there before have rolled in, thick and white as cotton, whisked with a punishing cluster of grey, darkening the sky. Wreathed by a barrier of green, lush pines and thickets and lichens miles deep within an unmarked territory, Riza looks up. The sun has gone into hiding, its muted light powerless, unable to penetrate through the overcast. It looks like rain is soon upon them.

But the glass bottles stand untouched, reflecting the swirl of foliage and boughs of the forest.

Riza shakes her head in frustration, quelling the panic that begins to spiral up into her throat. Four hours until sundown, and Roy has missed his shot.  _Again._  Surely he must have gone through training for this, she surmises. But the target has only warbled a little before they return to stand at attention once more, as if their bases are glued onto the large, rotting log holding them in place.

"What's holding you back?" Riza asks, willing patience into her voice, "That's the third shot you've missed. I know you can do better than that."

"Let me try again," Roy inclines, lifting the pistol with a stable hand and a firm grip. But a stable hand and a firm grip are useless, Riza concludes, if his mind is occupied and his focus is elsewhere, as she can plainly see in his flustered, dark set of eyes.

Approaching him calmly, she murmurs, "Here, let me help you."

With a slight reluctance, she positions a guiding hand on his grip. Her steady palm rests over his clutch, which quakes just a fragment as skin and skin collide. Faintly, she can hear the grating of his saliva descending his throat. Knowing full well now why he's missed, Riza draws back, vacating her spot.

He doesn't react to her brisk retreat, and she sees his forward eyes maintained, sharp and determined, ready to prove his worth this time around. But when she drifts her attention to the objects beyond the clearing, she can feel his stealthy glance on her, escalating her awareness of him between the small stretch of separation.

Roy snaps his one eye shut as he aims, and Riza amends, "People have this perception that closing one eye will provide better aim. This is wrong. You need both eyes open to aim properly." His periphery catches her, a look that reveals knowledge, and she adds, "Sometimes people close it out of reflex even though they know not to. You're probably one of those people."

Soundlessly, Roy nods, indicating his understanding.

"Take a deep breath and clear your mind," she instructs. And he inhales deeply, eyes pressed to a shut then open, proceeding to align his gun straight in the air as though a ruler is suspended over it. Riza then says in a hushed voice, cool and composed, an advising tone, "And now,  _shoot_."

_Bang!_

"Another," she commands.

_Bang!_

The ringing of gunshots sends more crows flying. And two glass bottles, one beside the other, burst into pieces, shattering to the ground with a loud shrill, as if declaring to the remaining birds to scram, to fly far and away.

"There. Much better," she remarks, smiling finely at his triumph.

"Definitely much better," Roy replies, chuckling with satisfaction.

She assesses the remaining bottles on the rotting log. Two down. Five more still stand.

Taking out the pistol holstered to her shoulder, Riza aims, her spine upright and shoulders stiff. Deep breath, just as she has told him, and with heavy concentration, her sight dotting the targets, she shoots.  _Bang!_  The ear-splitting sound crackles the air.  _Bang! Bang! Bang!_  One after another and another.  _Bang!_  And all five bottles lay as mere crystals on the ground. The smell of gunpowder persists in the air afterward, stinking a bit like sulphur and a lot like smoke.

Roy tramples over to the log that once propped their targets, examining the ground of broken glass with great engrossment as though he's fishing for a lost treasure within the ruptured bottles. With a cautious hand, he dangles one bottle, its curvaceous shape in tact, rolled in sticky soil and moss. When he starts to walk back with the announcement, his voice comes across diffident, not jeering or teasing like how she'd expect it to be, "You missed one. You just grazed it off the log."

"Hmm well, my accuracy is not perfect," Riza intones, clasping her gun back into her holster.

"Maes says you're a perfect shot," Roy rectifies.

She insists nonchalantly, "That is not true."

He molds a peculiar look, his mouth parting roundedly as if he's about to reply with a rejoinder he always seems to wield in the crease of his lips. But he holds his tongue, his jaw slack without a sound, and he echoes her gesture, clipping his gun into the safety of its leather strap. Purposefully, he bends to pick up the larger shards from the ground, placing them carefully on his palm.

Challenging his expression, Riza asks, her voice demanding, "Were you going to tease me about my shooting?"

Roy looks up, his tone even and unperturbed, "No, I wasn't."

"Are you sure? You look like you had something to say."

"I was only thinking why you missed that one," Roy confesses, meeting her piercing stare. But from the way his gaze lingers about her, she feels the need to reply, to say something.

"I'm just anxious about tonight is all," Riza says in a hurry, mediating the tense air before it distends too uncomfortably. Kneeling to clean up the traces of their training, she gathers the casings, dropping the scrunched up metal into her knapsack.

It's only half a truth. Decidedly, she would never admit the other half. As her sight flitted over the fourth bottle, Roy's face, all handsome and captivating, had surfaced unsolicited. His rosy lips, the sweet taste of which had assailed her tongue and reminded her of what it craved, had torn her focus in the least convenient time. And as Roy stood a meager gap behind her, watching and observing the master at work, she had instead anticipated his shuddering breath to hit the nape of her neck, one which  _unfortunately_  never came.

"It's not about what happened last night, is it?" Roy breaches boldly, fiddling with the metal piece in his hand.

"No, it's not," she replies tenaciously, hoping the stringency of her tone will allay her ever growing emotions. "And it looks like it's going to rain soon, so we should head back."

"I think we should talk about last night," he asserts, picking up the last casing and discarding it into her bag.

"No, I don't think it's necessary." Roughly, she fastens her knapsack, slinging it across her torso. Her eyes, forcibly, peer at the patches of mud on the ground without a care, just as long as they are away from Roy's heavy gaze and insistent demeanor. Trekking towards their vehicle, enshrouded with leafy branches a good distance away, she feels a bead of nervous sweat along her hairline against the cold, afternoon draft.

By the time they return, the overwhelming tension of their circumstance has billowed within the tiny, one-room apartment like a rising smoke, fast and uncontrollable. Now, the safehouse doesn't feel as much like a safehouse rather than a place of contention. Who would emerge the victor, Riza derides, laughing mockingly at herself. But with an impending mission in their future and the inevitable discussion that comes with its preparation, there is nowhere for Riza to hide within the four walls they share.

Mutely, Riza absorbs herself with tonight's task. Readying their pistols, she counts each bullet meticulously, pilling them one by one into their slot, filling the magazine. Every so often she would steal furtive glances at Roy, who busies himself with the blueprint of the château, examining fingers rubbing the curve of his chin. But her expression can only conceal so much, the frustration and conflict are blatant in her clumsy fingers as a bullet slips and clunks onto the wooden floor, rolling away.

Before Riza can swipe the bullet off the ground, Roy's quick hand snatches it from her grasp. She looks up, greeting dark, brooding eyes. Wordlessly, she extends her palm towards the ceiling, beseeching, requesting the item with a hint of timidity.

"Here," he proffers, placing the item in her hand.

"Thanks," she mutters, gripping it hastily.

But Roy doesn't leave. Instead, he lingers, his towering shadow obscuring the dim desk lamp.

"Yes?" Riza ventures, turning her head towards him with a racing heart.

"I just want to say I'm sorry," he atones, his voice sincere, thick with remorse. With a mindful grip, Roy's hands placate over her shoulders, swiveling her body to face him, the grating shriek of the stool against its metal base like a warning of the conversation to come. He locks eyes with her, saying, "I would hate myself if anything happens to you tonight, that's all."

"Being in danger is a part of our job," she argues, her forehead pleating with disapproval. "When we signed on to do this work, it's as good as offering our lives on the table. You can't just ask me to stay put. We were assigned to complete this mission  _together_."

Gingerly, Roy stoops to his knees until they are squarely eye-to-eye, the intensity of his gaze matching hers, unyielding. But there's something melancholy about the way he looks at her, she notes, and it irks her that she can't swat the pressing desire to envelope him in a hug, and erase the sorrow from his expression. When his posture suddenly lurches forward, her breath snags in her throat, the butterflies in her stomach fluttering, floating towards her rib cage where her heart dwells with a rapid drumbeat. He replies, repentant, "Yes, and I apologize for asking that of you. As much as I hate to admit, I need you there with me. I know I can't do this by myself."

"If you know that then you shouldn't have said what you said last night," Riza counters, stern and vehement.

"Yes, I'm sorry, Riza. I hope you'll forgive me." With a sheepish hand, Roy reaches for her face, caressing it languidly, fondly, as if reminding himself of the sensation of her skin. She gulps, anticipating, unsure of what to do, her cheeks heating underneath his fingers as they trace a scorching line from the crest of her cheekbone to the point of her chin, painting a rosy complexion along the way. Then, the pad of his thumb trails up, hovering over the pillow of her lips, meandering, like he's contemplating whether to kiss it. He says, the spectre of a sad smile ghosting his mouth, "I was only listening to my heart. And my heart told me to protect the woman I'm hopelessly in love with."

Breathlessly, she stills, her heart ceasing to beat, if only for a second. Riza can merely answer his confession with a speechless stare, her limbs rigid as a wooden plank, her mind forever swimming in the ardor of his words. Though once she's regained composure, her gaze softens, and she feels a gust of warmth as her chest brims with joy and her head reels with astonishment.

But Roy seems to decipher her silence for rejection. The steadfast affection that was evident in his eyes fades to a glossy black. The wistful curve along his lips evaporates, drifting away to become simply a memory. He rises to his feet, collecting the hand on his knee, swinging it in doubtful motion as he trudges away. Without looking back, Roy enters the bathroom and quietly clicks the metal door to a close, shielding himself within the compartment, ousting himself from her view.

Her toes fidget, imploring her legs to chase, to run after him. Yet her hands grip the rim of her stool, as if letting go would send her spiraling into a dark abyss.

The edifice of the château near Rhône-Alpes soars into life, her vision outlining its sharp roofs and gigantic pillars. The silhouettes of German soldiers sprout like weeds above the ground, concealed in darkness, a sketch of their slender rifles the most vivid in her mind. Oh, the endless rumination should misfortune befall them tonight. Then, there is the swirling thought of death, unrelenting, biting. And alongside death, Riza contemplates on her life.

Duty takes precedence when she dated her day and dotted her 'i' above the black underline, a contract that shackles her life to her country until her flesh and bones shrivel, too feeble to be useful. The wind then has become her constant companion, taking her to where she's been assigned, to foreign places that serve as her temporary home since she has not one of her own. The roads to her final destination - the cities marked by bullet points - have become her obligation, until every instruction crossed and every square box checked.

While Riza isn't particularly religious, she has followed each directive like an evening rosary. Her life is a loop of procession followed in conscientious order, the prayer beads signifying the commencement of her mission, the middle, and the end, over and over, until every lavender pearl is recited and she's free to move onto the next. After each decade, as marked by the one larger bead, is her year in summary - how many assignments did she complete? How many countries did she save?

And she questions herself. Is this it?

Now, the unbidden desire for her partner is a reminder of how far she's strayed out of her perpetual vesper. Yet, the conviction she once held from wandering this enticing path has been gradually crumbling since the day she met him. More importantly, should something happen to either of them tonight, will this unexplored new road eternally haunt her as an inconsolable regret?

Without a second longer, she rushes to where he is. A moist palm on the knob, and Riza twists, wishing for a glimpse of him, her heart seeking, her body coveting.

And she opens.

The boiler whirs in its place below the ivory valances, clamorous, clattering. The noise rattles through the space, along the walls, on the mirror, like a freight train rumbling forward. The shower head on the opposite side gushes with water, beating the floor tiles with its heat. A white mass of steam ascends to the ceiling, filling it up, veiling the sharp corners of the rectangular room into edgeless clouds.

She finds Roy. Both of his hands are firm around the crook of the sink, his fingers taut, the blood drained from the tips. He doesn't look up, his eyes sunk to the depth of the porcelain bowl, unaware of her abrupt entrance. His posture displays defeat, dejection, flaunted by the strained lines of his muscles, all along his shoulders and back. In that second, all she wants to do is slip consoling arms around his waist, holding him to her chest.

For once, she listens to her heart, and she succumbs willingly. She rests her cheek on his mist-flecked skin, smooth on her face. Her arms slide around him, fingers weaving together, clasped around his torso. Bracing him tightly, she discovers an odd sense of peace as she inhales his scent of sandalwood, like a part of her life complete and a new one beginning.

"Ri-Riza?" Roy flinches, her startling gesture turning his body stiff.

Attuning to his shallow breaths and the quickening of his pulse, Riza smiles despite herself, mumbling hot vapor against his skin, "Roy... I don't know what to do with myself when I'm around you..."

Roy spins around. Riza's hands unclasp, allowing room for his shifting body, though they remain on his skin, unwilling to let go, the tips of her fingers skimming against a firm set of abdomen as he faces her. His eyes are no longer somber. Instead, they glint with a soft sheen, a striate of white light parting the surface of a black ocean. A gaze full of hope.

With an arresting smile, he pulls her into an embrace, tender arms melting against her skin. "Maybe you can start by telling me what you're thinking about," Roy whispers, burying his nose in her messy bun.

"I'm thinking about… you," Riza sighs, her limbs pliant against his body.

He chuckles, his warm breath tickling her ear, "Go on."

"I'm thinking about… why I can't get you out of my mind…" she murmurs into his shoulder, tugging on his skin with her lips, mildly, playfully.

Nibbling the tip of her ear, above her earring, he hums in approval. "Keep going..."

"I'm thinking about… how I'm always breathless everytime you're near me…" she mumbles, dragging a light finger along the curve of his back, inch by inch.

"And...?" he breathes, moving to brush the side of her neck with his lips, exhaling heat. In exchange, she sweeps hers along the exposed column of his throat, traversing upward with small kisses until her mouth finds the sharp corner of his jaw.

"And I'm thinking that… I want to kiss you, I want to hold you, and I want to be able to do all of this  _and more_  for as long as time allows me to."

Rearing her against the wall, slow and careful, Roy unclips her barrette, loosening half tousled hair into a drape of long, golden strands. He tilts her chin up with an index finger, luring her mouth into his, a little at a time, until she feels a soft graze against her upper lip. With a pounding heart, eyes fluttering closed, Riza reciprocates, pressing an intoxicating kiss against his own. For a moment, they surrender themselves to the reunion of lips against lips, the waltzing of tongues in the folds and creases of their mouths, unhurried, as if learning each other's rhythm and tempo.

The skin on his lower back perspires beneath her hands, and instinctively, she reaches down towards the band of his trouser, unbuckling the belt, freeing him from its confine. As he shirks the fabric with careless abandon, Roy sighs against her throat, coaxing a warm purl in her belly that she can only stave off by digging her teeth to her bottom lip. Her fingers thread with her own buttons, fumbling to undo, until all decency is shed to the ground.

His fingers lace into hers with ease, the ones rolling over his chest, and he gently strokes her hair with the other, tucking silky locks behind her ear. Roy asks, an ascertaining gaze, "And you're sure this is what you want?"

"Yes," Riza answers, confident. And she ambles backward, taking his hand in hers, toward the cascade pounding hard against the ground.

With the hot stream rushing on her back and Roy flush against her, she feels as though every part of her is enveloped in summer's embrace, warm and content. Safe. Resting anchoring hands on her hips, Roy trails adoration with delicate lips over the expanse of her skin, beginning with the breadth of her collarbone down to the swells of her breasts and the flat of her stomach. Over the highest peaks and down to the most intimate meadow, Roy explores with reverent kisses, every contact, every gesture recoiling the heat in her stomach.

When Riza starts to forget how to breathe, Roy rises and pulls her into him, his knees bending to her height. He rocks against her, slow at first, a gentle breeze rolling and undulating, just like his caresses, just like his kisses. Her spine curls, and the pulse beneath her skin roars, louder and faster with each second, matching the flurry of his motion.

Roy leans in to whisper in her ear, sweetly reminding her of his affection. And as his lips claim her breath, his body taking charge of hers, she finds herself panting, gasping, sensing a flare roiling within. In that moment, all Riza can do is draw in a desperate air, moan and cry for his name, while the rest of her submits to intimacy's unspoken wishes as her body is sated and her heart loved.

The night creeps in as silently as the heels of their boots. Before them is the magnificent château, rimmed with uniformed soldiers along the perimeter; the same hulking monster that may deliver them closer to death's door. The window in which they will enter scowl at the two agents with its flickering yellow light. But there is no shadowed movements on the wall it guards, no telltale signs of soldiers parading about within.

"Let's go," Roy whispers, crouching towards a wild hedge.

"Wait," Riza calls out, straining her muted voice, grabbing the back of his jacket.

Searching her expression, he asks quietly, his tone concerned, "What's wrong?"

"Be careful," she pleads, her hand trembling with anxiety, her eyes glistening with fear, "and don't...  _leave_  me… okay?"

Roy cups the back of her head and stumbles forward, placing a comforting kiss on her forehead, a tender kiss on her mouth. With a soothing smile, he says, his gaze resolute, "I promise we'll both leave this place together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It's been a while since I last wrote a chapter below 4k words. But this moment deserves its own chapter and I refuse to disgrace it with the thrill of their mission. Next chapter is where everything goes down :P. Thank you for reading, and comments are always appreciated!


	15. no heaven is waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is now the longest chapter of Atlas. I hope it's worth the wait lol. A special thanks to **LadyAureliana** and **Mica** (caesurables) for your help on this chapter. Enjoy!

**Lyon, October 19, 1942**

Slipping in his fingers through the slit in the window, Roy grits his teeth as he flexes an opening. A blunt squeak accompanies, the sound of unoiled metal grinding against its rail, before a wide entrance suspends itself securely above them.

Locking his fingers together, Roy cushions Riza's foot, launching her into the dark space. From within, she sticks out a helping hand. With one gripping the windowsill and the other clasped in hers, Roy pulls himself up, flinging the rest of his body into the empty room.

With so much at stake - the threat of an atomic bomb on Allied states and the safety of their citizens, along with the claim to victory of this wretched war - Roy can't shake off the streak of perspiration smearing against the fabric of his paratrooper gloves. Wordlessly, he steals a glance at his partner. Her fitted, black attire is the same as his, covering her tense muscles and any telling signs of anxiety she may have.

As though comprehending his nervousness, Riza flicks him a steady gaze, full of assurance and resoluteness - a look that promises of a fortuitous night. She takes his hand in hers, squeezing it firmly, and whispers a gentle order in his ear, "Snap your fingers, Roy. Wish us both good luck."

He removes his gloves, and he snaps.

Within seconds, the fire that has been slowly dwindling at the constant thought of failure begins to rekindle itself. It's funny, Roy thinks, how a simple gesture has such a positive impact on his pitiful state. More so as this silly habit seems to provide Riza with a semblance of comfort, too, as seen through the tiny upward curl of her mouth. Though he knows that some form of negativity will be a tenacious companion tonight, for the moment, a sense of composure has seeped back in, little by little.

"This is the study," Roy declares in a low voice, closing the window with a dampened thud. As he unties the rope around the velvet drape, he takes one last peek outside for foot patrol before drawing the curtains to a close. "We can start our search here."

Riza's hand fiddles with the dial of a flickering lantern, whipping it incessantly until it glows a steady yellow. "It's very quiet here, isn't it? I don't hear anything at all."

"Let me check the hallway." Unclasping his gun from its holster, Roy ventures to the only entry point at the far end of the room. Prudent, he twists the knob. With the other hand gripping his weapon tightly, he sneaks a perusing gaze through the small gap, his blood pounding in his ears.

Silver moonbeam filters through the cathedral-arch windows, stamping echoes of their mosaic patterns onto the pale marble floor. Round wall sconces shine a murky white above his head and several doors down, illuminating a narrow corridor that seems to stretch infinitely as darkness occupies its furthest end. Roy flits his gaze to the opposite side, encountering a high, paneled wall. The beginning of the hallway. Or the end. He leans against the door frame, listening for movements.

Nothing. Not a soul.

"Anything?" Riza whispers through the suspensive silence, her light footsteps stopping in its track.

Closing the door as quietly as he can manage, Roy answers, "Nothing. The hallway is completely empty."

Inhaling deeply, his partner prowls to a rolltop desk, tugging at a row of wide drawers, skimming through its contents. Beside her, Roy hikes up the cover, discovering a thick journal and writing instruments held in an ornate cup atop the scuffed, intricate worktop. Riffling through the notated pages for any tokens of intelligence, Roy mutters, "Now where would one hide a map or an address to a hydroelectric plant..."

With the German atomic weapons program underway, the British Special Operations Executive has been scrambling with ways to delay its development. The Vemork plant in Norway supplies the necessary heavy water -  _or deuterium oxide as Roy's scholarly mind prefers to call it_  - to create a nuclear power reactor and it will need to be destroyed. On loan from the American Office of Strategic Services for his scientific knowledge, Roy is tasked alongside Riza to learn the location of the second plant, which is confirmed to have been built by a German company and rumored to be located somewhere in France. This is the core assignment of Operation Atlas.

Upon the completion of their mission, a covert team member will be selected and inserted into the plant's day-to-day operations, someone who is specially trained in combat and possesses extensive knowledge in chemistry and engineering. Studying their elaborate defenses and reporting back clandestinely will be his or her sole assignment. But before this person can commit to their job, Roy and Riza must first succeed at discovering the location.

While the anxiety that has governed Roy's body has been waning and waxing throughout the night, a stream of worst-case scenarios continues to dominate his restless mind. What if tonight proves to be unfruitful? Where should they search next to ensure there are no additional delays to this time-sensitive assignment?

"Riza..." Roy says with hesitation, "what if we're just wasting our time by coming here?"

"Well, guards  _are_  posted outside, so they must be guarding  _something_ ," Riza notes with optimism. She skims through a column of book spines tucked into the built-in shelf, collecting soot and grime on her fingers. Looking up at Roy, she placates, as if still sensing doubt about him, "I have a good feeling we'll find what we're looking for here. But perhaps not in this room."

"I think you're right," Roy says, turning a sheet on the journal, "because there's nothing on this log. It's just a catalogue of art pieces, like the-" he reads, "late fourteenth century vase from the Ming Dynasty in the billiard room… and The Myth of Prometheus in the drawing room..."

Slapping the pages of a thick tome together, Riza decides with confidence before slipping the book back into the shelf, "Let's go."

With the patrols prowling a sinuous course outside of the window, the two agents lurk the dark corridor away from the penetrating moonlight. Heels raised, they crouch, creeping forward with Roy leading the way. Reaching an opulent room, they lodge themselves by the arcing frame, waiting and observing.

The small space feels intimate, unlike the rest of the château. The crackling flame from the fireplace accompanies the dancing shadows on the wall. A grand piano sits in the rightmost corner of the room, beckoning for a player, the music sheets propped, ready to grace the chamber with its chosen melody. From behind the cocoon of a high-back chair, a screeching noise resounds.

Peering inside with the faintest of steps, Roy identifies an older man, a glass of rich, brown liquid in his hand. When the man emerges from the privacy of his hulking chair, Roy folds himself back into the darkness, silently watching from the corner of his eyes.

Crinkled forehead perches above the man's oval-rimmed spectacles, age lines stringing from the edges of his nose to the side of his mouth. He flounders for a roll of cigar, lighting its butt with a slight tremble of his hand. Searching for soldier qualities or any indications of his role in the Nazi-invaded lair, Roy finds absolutely nothing.

"I think there's a  _civilian_  living here," Roy whispers, his mouth pursing from uncertainty.

"Is he harmless, you think?" Riza asks under her breath.

"Seems like it."

"Should we check the second floor then?"

Recalling the white lines of the blueprint, Roy guides their path to the kitchen. "There's a servant staircase 'round the back," Roy informs, "it will also lead us directly to the master bedrooms. Perhaps we'll find something there."

Once they arrive in the kitchen, a slew of cooks and chefs, all male of rotund builds, huddles around the countertop like a team of rugby players reviewing game strategies. They chat and laugh, shoving one another by the shoulder and throwing banters in French which Roy has a hard time understanding, their accents strange and unfamiliar.

As Roy has observed for the past several days, this particular group should be heading outside for their smoke break within the minute. Counting the seconds on his wristwatch, Roy finds himself instantly watching the men shove their bodies out the door and into the night. When the door shuts close, an icy gust slaps his exposed skin, cold and biting, reminding him of what awaits should they leave the place unencumbered. He licks his lips, his mouth suddenly parched from the brief interlude with the wind. Swallowing a thick lug of saliva, he begins to feel apprehensive, as though an impending doom is about to befall them.

Riza leads the hasty march to the second floor, eyeing Roy peculiarly as he stands idle behind her. Gathering himself, Roy gives her a quick nod, alleviating the building concern in her gaze.

Most of the rooms upstairs seem unlived, the furnishings and hung artworks thoroughly covered with stained, white sheets that give off a sense of a past not worth remembering. There is an old, musty smell in each bed chamber, dust and ashes sprinkled generously to prickle the gulf of Roy's nose.

Towards the end of the hallway, a dim amber glimmers underneath the crack in the door. Approaching, Roy intently plasters his ear to the mahogany coat. As he learns of the quietness inside, he enters the room with a cautious stride, inviting Riza to join him once the space is safe and sound.

Inside, a colossal portrait of a young man, its size extending from above the mantelpiece to the crown molding of the ceiling, greets the agents. Unmistakably, the man in the picture and the civilian he observed earlier share common features akin to a father and his son. Unlike the man downstairs, however, the man in the picture is shot with an air of dignity, his posture regal and his smile decorous, just like many commissioned paintings Roy has seen in his lifetime.  _But where is the son_ , Roy muses.

In contrast to the warmth of the small space downstairs, the room in which they stand radiates an aura of hostility. A large Nazi flag, embroidered with the notorious swastika in the center, and a smaller sized one atop a side table deface the sensibility of a bedroom into the likeness of a cold and stringent militaristic chamber.

On the nightstand, Roy unearths a family photo behind a stack of grey-bound books. On the sepia print are three people: the man downstairs sitting in the center, a light haired woman standing faithfully behind him and a young man - the same as the one in the portrait - with his arms steadfast on his side.

Before Roy can show Riza his finding, she advances towards him in a hurried gait, her tiptoe creaking on the polished wood flooring. She abruptly ducks, pulling him down with her without a word. Swiftly, she crawls under the four-poster bed, gesturing to Roy to follow, her hand signal indicating an imminent visitor.

With the rattling doorknob, a stream of hallway light enters the space. Roy's eyes widen in surprise; he recognizes the man strutting into the room. Being one of the contributors to the German nuclear project, Fritz Bopp stirs quite the unease within the United States military. His name, among a few other German scientists, holds the reputation of the most brilliant physicists in the program.

Roy appraises his appearance, sizing him up from top to bottom, scientist to scientist. He finds the man's formal demeanor and lofty build admirable and despicable all at the same time. With disdain, Roy questions himself, why would a man as intelligent as him support the regime?

Upending a leather satchel onto the vanity table, Fritz's hands shuffle through a mess of letters and papers before finally snatching one and inserting the envelope into his inner jacket pocket. Shortly, he heads towards the door, clicking the hinges together, unaware of the two agents hiding underneath his mattress.

"That's Fritz Bopp. He's quite well known in the scientific community," Roy states in a hushed tone.

Riza nods in acknowledgment. "Then this confirms our suspicion that something is going on within the  _château_. It makes sense, really, with the entourage from last night, and now that scientist."

They creep after the ghostly imprints of Mr Bopp. The scientist's footfalls are audible underneath his stocky frame. They snake through the maze of corridors. And should they lose track of the creak of his steps, Roy's memory of the blueprint would escort them from one room to another and another, avoiding the possibility of going around in circles. Careening down the grand staircase, as quietly as thieves in the night, they turn a sharp right.

They stop.

Two soldiers, one remarkably taller than the other, stand as rigid as medieval suits of armor in the narrow hallway decked with beauvais tapestries. The tightness of the space places the two in close distance. From Roy's angle, they look almost kissing as one is stationed across from the other.

Behind the taller guard is a suspicious slit in the wall, its vague line tracing a tall, rectangular shape.  _A hidden door_. With their arms propped at their side, they safeguard it with eyes set forward, the rifle's stock firm in their hands. Roy, with agitation making his heart skip a beat, utters a silent prayer as his head bumps softly against the wall.

Roy scans his surroundings, gleaning for entries and doors, every nooks and crannies that would lend aid to their situation. His mind assembles a strategy (a triumphant one, he hopes), and after a thoughtful deliberation, he settles for a backup plan, one involving for at least the safety of his partner. Roy shoots a glare at Riza, his stare unblinking. Pointing to the taller soldier then to himself, he soundlessly communicates his plan.

"No. I'll take care of the taller man," Riza whispers, "he's closer to me."

Though reluctant, he knows better than to argue. He nods, acquiescing.

As though rehearsed, the two agents rush in with congruity. For the soldiers, the sudden assault catches them off guard, their expressions startled.

Riza propels her elbow backward, launching a severe punch into the guard's face. Roy follows suit, grunting for strength as he lands a harsh blow to his target's jaw, his knuckles throbbing from the sensation.

Both men thud against the wall. The shorter one grimaces as he lets out a muffled oomph. With the stream of adrenaline flowing through his veins, Roy wrestles for his rifle. His palms are slick with perspiration as the barrel angles towards the ceiling, then to the floor, then slants towards Riza and the other guard. Slapping the muzzle away deftly with his hand, Roy seizes the weapon, eliciting a strained grunt from the soldier.

When the man opens his mouth to shout, Roy swiftly swipes the man's ankle, forcing the man to tumble to the ground. In surprise, the man yelps loudly, his head thrown back to whack against the polished floor.

"Shh,  _s'il te plaît ferme ta gueule_ ," Roy says, pressing a finger to his own lips, smirking. Shut your fucking mouth, he says, though he knows the German probably cannot make sense of the French words. Abruptly, using the rifle's hard edge, Roy strikes the soldier's temple, hard and precise, knocking him unconscious.

A succession of clunking noises hits the ground, clattering beside him, as he collects his breath. Looking toward the source, Roy sees Riza emptying the bullets out of the soldier's rifle, her posture nonchalant, as though nothing has happened. On the ground, the taller guards lies unconscious, his head lolling against the wall.

Roy stares at her with incredulity, amazed, his jaw hanging slack. She doesn't seem ruffled in the least, her bun still perfectly neat and round as she pats the  _chignon_  to check. When she turns briefly to look at him, the magnificence of her action robs his coherence. All he can do is mouth a silent 'wow'.

"Roy?" she inquires, kindly, curling him a small smile. Dumping the disassembled rifle onto the guard's body, she points her index finger at the rifle in Roy's hands. "You might want to get a move on with that."

"Ah. Right," Roy nods, swiftly gathering his heart and his mind. Mirroring her action, he vacates the soldier's rifle from its bullets. He picks up them up from the floor, stuffing them into his pocket.

They drag the soldiers' listless bodies to the end of the hallway where a small broom closet is tastefully hidden, the door blending with the rich, brown wooden panel. A rounded, metal key protrudes from the lock, and with a quick twist, Riza locks the two soldiers in, detaining the key to their freedom in the depth of her pocket.

"Ready?" Riza asks.

Roy nods, and she pushes the wall with both hands.

This part of the château is not on the blueprint. The spiral staircase seems newly built, the perforated treads made from stainless steel, a relatively new material, are polished and shiny. They descend in a clockwise direction, mindful of their steps. When they reach the basement, the air feels heavy and the smell unpleasantly sterile, considerably harder on Roy's lungs. He glances at Riza, wondering the same, finding the bridge of her nose scrunched up as she sniffs.

The circular basement is cold and sparse, its walls a slate grey, akin to one of an underground military bunker. The fluorescent light above glares a bright white. It is scant of furnitures save for a large, oval table in the center. Unrolled parchment papers are strewn about atop it, the curled edges flattened by various sizes of different color books. One side of the wall holds a world map, its surface covered with strings of red yarn, weaved into a confusing web with pearly push pins securing them together.

Vigilant, Roy approaches the wall. Studying the markers, he connects the dots before plucking a piece of paper from his pocket. He jots down the number.  _Four, eight, point, two, eight..._

"Roy!" Riza hisses, calling to him urgently.

Turning around, he finds her standing next to a square-shaped frame, the thin outline fused into the wall.  _Another secret door?_  She rests her ear against it. "I hear something from behind here."

He puts his ear to the wall next to her, the concrete barrier cool on his cheek. He attempts to extract the muffled voices through the loud thumping of his pulse. Gradually, the drowned out sounds become words, clearer and more discernible with every ounce of concentration. They form into a dialogue, an intense discussion in a foreign language. Men conniving in German.

"I think it's some kind of a meeting," Roy says in a soft voice.

Feebly, Riza shoves her palms against the wall. It shifts slightly. She does it again. The door groans quietly, and on one side, a crack opens. Just enough gap for them to look inside.

The muscles in his shoulders tense as Roy steals a view of the assembly. Inside, uniformed soldiers line the back of the room. Several officers and a few men in formalwear, among them Fritz Bopp, encircle an enormous round table.

Roy recognizes one of the men as the owner of Norsk Hydro, a Norwegian company responsible for constructing the first heavy water plant. The man sitting beside him is the president of IG Farben, a German chemical company, whose role and attendance is expected. Judging by the high-ranked officers in participation, Roy is certain they've struck gold.

The tips of his fingers tingle with excitement. And fear. "Riza, they're speaking German. Do you think you can translate?"

She sticks a closer ear in between the gap, her brows furrowed in concentration. "They're discussing the hydroelectric plant in Norway… Scheduling a visit there when the weather gets better…" Her lips purse in waiting. "Werner Naumann's name was brought up several times and how he's missed some scheduled visits… And they keep mentioning  _Lourde_ … it's a French word for 'heavy' but it doesn't mean anything in German..."

A few minutes later, her eyes widen and mouth parting open. She crows with enthusiasm, with urgency, "Lourde in Saint Dié... Roy, the plant's name is Lourde, and it's in Saint Dié!"

"Tsk, tsk. We can't have you disturb such an important meeting, my friends."

Rapidly, the two agents twist their heads to the speaker. The man's English is laced with an unmistakable German accent.

Roy identifies the man as an  _Obersturmbannführer_  - Lieutenant-Colonel, his braided shoulder strap displaying his rank. His slicked hair and sharp eyes are familiar above the prim and pristine Nazi uniform, his build fit and his aura merciless. But underneath the ever quickening drumbeat in his chest, Roy struggles to recognize his familiarity… until he bellows an order to his comrade behind him.

The man is from last night's retinue, and in his hand is a Luger, pointed towards the two agents. The other soldier aims his rifle in kind, ready to take the shot at a moment's order. Reflexively, Roy raises his hands in the air, seeing Riza doing the same from the corner of his eye.

"Alright, step away from the wall," the Lieutenant-Colonel commands, jerking his weapon upward, threatening, gesturing them to move. "Keep both hands up where I can see them."

Nervous sweat puddles on his back and streaks his hairline. As Roy treads up the staircase and into a massive drawing room, he can't suppress his overwhelming fear for his partner. The dread assails his hearing, masking the officer's menacing order into a barely discernible mumble.

Roy sneaks a glance at Riza as often as he could.

She seems collected. Her calm appearance, Roy is sure, contradicts any distress or fear she may feel. A seasoned agent, she doesn't falter in her steps nor quirk her expression in the slightest.

When the private shoves his ushering rifle into her back to steer her a certain direction, there is nothing more Roy would like to do other than to pummel the man to the ground, choke his throat as an added pain. But even then, Riza's spine is impressively straight, unruffled by the soldier's intimidation.

"Stand there. If you even twitch in the slightest, I will shoot," the Lieutenant-Colonel warns. He then demands, harsh and hasty, "Private, search them for weapons."

The private obeys, patting invading hands up and down Riza's body, beginning with the area around her chest and down the curve of her legs. Roy's teeth clench at the man's incursion, the desire to knock him out intensified with every part he touches. With her hands up, Riza flicks an eye towards Roy, which he captures, seeing a meaningful glint behind the brown shade.

Then he remembers what Riza had shown him before they departed the safety of their apartment. Something the British has been experimenting with.

The man's rubbing and patting on Roy's figure is soon forgotten, his mind racing to put together a precipitous plan that would hopefully extract them from their predicament. His quivering limbs ignored, Roy promptly whips an arm around the private's neck as the man ventures up his torso, his rifle clunking to the ground at the sudden assault.

Immediately, a flat, square gun the size of Riza's fist skates out of her forearm and into her palm, the railing contraption skidding underneath her long sleeve.

" _It only holds two bullets," Riza had said, "but it should be enough to buy us time if anything does happen."_

With the small weapon in her hand, Riza plants the slender muzzle under the soldier's chin. She bends down minimally, holding the weapon steady on his skin while kicking the fallen rifle towards the fireplace behind them, away from the Lieutenant-Colonel.

"Drop your gun," Riza commands, her voice firm. "Kick it my way."

The officer's mien subtly changes at the reversed circumstance, the corner of his mouth twitching. But the pistol in his hand is still steady around his grip.

"I said drop it. Or this man dies," Riza repeats, louder, firmer.

The officer stoops down, slow and cautious, the gun laid sideways in his grip towards the floor. His vivid blue eyes bore into Roy's then drift constantly between the soldier wound in his arm and Riza and back to him. But there's something alarming about his demeanor, setting off a panic in his head. He's too much at ease, Roy thinks, and the way he maintains equanimity...

Before Roy arrives at an answer, the Lieutenant-Colonel extends the barrel towards him and pulls the trigger.

The private in Roy's arms slumps down onto the floor, the man's full weight suddenly evident against his chest. His uniform blotches specks of crimson, the color spreading into a large pool around his stomach. Roy releases the man, dropping him to the ground, the soldier's eyes parting open in shock, an absence in them.

For a fleeting moment, Roy feels nothing but the harshness of heat enveloping him. It must be the adrenaline rush, he decides. But the comfortable warmth in his limbs begins to subside, his feet growing numb and his head feeling faint, as though every ounce of vitality in his body has been sucked out, dispersed into the cool air.

Without warning, a sharp, burning pain penetrates his torso. Roy looks down. Something begins to ooze out of his stomach, a rivulet of cloying wine, sticky and viscous. Red. Instinctively, his hand ventures to the source.  _The private's blood?_  When he fans out his hand and turns it over, the same deep color that washes the soldier's uniform is smudged on his skin, deepening his palm lines, profiling his fingerprints.

What happens next is too fast for his brain to process. Lamentably, Roy can only attest to a series of gunshots and a muffled scream.

The Lieutenant-Colonel lies on the floor, both hands grasping his chest, his mouth gasping for air. When did he fall to the floor, Roy wonders.

Cocking his head up towards Riza, Roy sees her beautiful face contorted with anger... or grief?

 _Please don't be mad_ , he'd like to tell her. He sees her eyes mist with sorrow, the rims turning red.  _Please don't cry_ , he'd also like to say. But expelling a word feels impossible, as if a sturdy rope is choking his neck. When the room fades to black for a second, everything is silent save for a distorted yell...

"Roy! Roy!" Riza shrieks, her voice trembling.

When Roy opens his eyes, the Lieutenant-Colonel's faraway gaze greets him. A puddle of blood nests beside the man, sprawling on the ground, gradually washing the wood floor a ruthless red hue. The man's fingers are extended towards the pistol within his reach, but the hand seeking it is motionless.

"Hold on to me! We're getting out of here," Riza announces, hauling Roy's limp body from the ground. Hurriedly, she pleads, her voice straining as she struggles with his weight, "Can you push yourself against the floor? Please? Before the others come!"

"Riza... what... ha-?" Roy rasps, wrestling to straighten his legs.

"You got shot. The bullet pierced through his body and hit you," she explains in a panic-stricken tone, winding Roy's flaccid arm around her neck, lumbering away from the drawing room as quickly as she can.

Everything feels like a dream, his mind hazy, his vision a blur. Finding a momentary strength, Roy croaks, rolling on a derisive smile, "If I… recall our manual correctly… this is where… you're supposed to… leave me…"

"I'm not leaving you!" she snarls. Grunting, she proceeds to drag both of their bodies through an opulent room. A familiar room, Roy remembers, with the grand piano tucked in one corner.

Taking a glimpse at Riza, Roy sees her eyes widening. Then he trudges his sluggish vision forward.

The same man they encountered an hour before stands before them, his flabbergasted stare piercing through his oval-rimmed glasses. The man doesn't say anything. But as he strays a frightened gaze at Roy, he flinches, taking a short, wary step backward.

" _Au secours! S'il vous plait!_ " Riza begs, desperate. Help! Please! "I know you're not one of them!" she shouts.

As if jolted out of his shell-shocked condition, the older man shakes his head. He stares at Riza, uncertain of what to do, his fingers fidgeting beside him. But as his face contours with alertness, his feet move quickly to hoist Roy's droopy figure alongside her. " _Viens avec moi_ ," he says.

From somewhere behind them, a set of subdued footsteps reverberate in Roy's ears. German soldiers approaching.

The stranger leads them past the kitchen and into an immense pantry room. A few chefs and cooks who have returned from their smoke break watch speechlessly, trailing their baffled sight at the three people. The man pushes a tall rack of produce, his rolled up sleeves flexing, his teeth gritting.

"Go out through here!" he commands in English, a thick French accent lilting among the words. "It will take you outside."

Carefully, Riza guides Roy's faltering steps into the underground tunnel, her hands firm around his arms. She then joins him in the cobwebbed hole, smelling of earth, filled with high-pitched chatter of small creatures.

The man hands her his blood-streaked jacket. He says in French, "Apply pressure to his wound."

" _Merci_ ," Riza replies, taking the blazer from the man and coiling it around his torso.

Everything becomes pitch black the minute the man covers the hole to the secret passage. In his half-awake state, Roy is undecided if it is the pleasure of sleep taking hold or if it is his dull vision darkening his surroundings. He feels a searching hand around his feet. Momentarily, the dim, yellow burn of a lighter invades the space, illuminating their rat-infested way home.

When Roy wakes, the sky outside is still dark. There are no clouds; there are only stars, brighter and bigger than usual, splotches of obscure, white dots against a navy blue backdrop. He blinks, pressing his eyelids together. He opens his eyes. Now, as he stares out the window, the autumn constellation shines a mesmerizing glow.

He props himself up. Or tries to. But a sudden piercing pain radiates throughout his body, ceasing his movement.

"Roy…?" Riza's voice resonates from the shadows. She flips the switch, and a blinding light prompts Roy to squint his eyes. When Riza sees his veiling hands, she quickly apologizes, "Sorry, but I need to check your bandages."

As she rests his back against the headboard, Roy senses the obstinate lethargy along his spine and his limbs. It must be the blood loss and the exhaustion taking a toll, he surmises. Suddenly worried, Roy inquires for his partner's wellbeing through his dry throat, his voice frail, "Are you alright, Riza? Were you... hurt anywhere?"

"No, I'm fine," she pacifies, pouring a glass of water and handing it to him. "Here, drink."

Thanking Riza, he sips the liquid, clearing the itch in his throat. "How long was I... out?"

"Not long. About six hours," she sniffs, moving to loosen the stiff wrapping around his torso. Within minutes, she redresses the area with a new roll of bandages, meticulously swathing the wound.

Roy observes her in silence. Once she finishes, he grasps her arm gently. She sits beside him, facing away. With a groggy finger, seeking, he tilts her chin towards him, finding swollen and red-rimmed eyes. Underneath them, there are traces of fatigue, manifesting themselves as heavy, dark circles. "Riza, were you… crying?"

She refuses to acknowledge his question. Instead, she pulls a chair closer to the edge of his bed. Sighing softly, she envelopes his cold hand into her clammy one, gripping it with an intensity, as if any less would induce him into slumber once again. She says, "Doctor Marco from the resistance checked your wounds. The good news is, the bullet pierced through your stomach cleanly and didn't hit any vital organs. But he will be back tomorrow to check for infection..."

When she drops her gaze downward, Roy asks, squeezing her hand mildly. "Riza… we both returned safely. You are fine, and you said it yourself that I'll be fine. So why the drab face?"

"Safe? You're hurt, Roy. If it weren't for that man you would've died!" she exclaims angrily.

"Sorry," he says, the only word that crosses his mind as he observes her flustered appearance.

Exhaling her ire, she settles vapidly in her seat, as though every bit of energy has been spent. She says, wearily, "The Frenchman's name is Robert Knox; it's sewn on his jacket. I'll pass his name down to Maes and have him run a background check. I have a feeling his house was surrendered to the Nazis by force and that's why he helped us. We may need to go back there once you're healed. And if Mr Knox is willing to work with us, it would be very beneficial."

But Roy smiles, comforting her trembling hand with a tender caress of her skin. "We won't need his help. We've already completed this part of the mission."

Riza stares at him, confused. "We did? We never got the exact location. No maps, no blueprints. Nothing. We only have an idea of where it is. Even then, that won't be enough information for us to move forward. Can you imagine trekking the whole of Saint Dié? It will take  _months_  to find the damn plant..."

"Umm, check my jacket pocket," Roy gestures. His brows wrinkle, as if trying to recall a distant memory. "Actually, check my trouser pocket. I think it's in there..."

Reluctantly, Riza complies. She lumbers to her cot, her hands digging through a heap of black garments atop the mattress, hunting. "This piece of paper?" Riza asks, pilfering a thin scrap in between her fingers, ensuring it is the item he asks for.

"Yes, that should be it," Roy nods. "Read it aloud for me."

"Forty-eight point two eight four two. Six point nine four nine?" she questions, her tone puzzled. She looks up at Roy. Then, as if the significance of the numbers finally dawns on her, Riza beams into a broad smile. Learning his knowing gaze, she laughs in disbelief, her expression a contrast to how it was seconds ago. She squeals in excitement, "Unbelievable! You got the coordinates!"

"That, I did," he replies proudly, smirking. "It should be smooth sailing from here onward. I think."

"This is wonderful!" she laughs. Thoroughly basked in the success of tonight's mission, she chirps on, delightfully, "I knew you were good for something, Roy!"

"Hey, what the hell does that mean?" Roy chuckles lightly, sensing an acute pain rippling around his stomach from the motion.

"You are such a clever bugger, you know that?" she compliments, the outline of her body shaking from amusement as she tucks the paper into her knapsack. She bounces to his bed, perching mindfully on his bed.

Weaving his fingers through hers with fondness, he instructs, "Tomorrow, when you're fetching for Doctor Marco, bring the paper with you. Have the resistance send a homing pigeon to Maes. The faster we can get it to him, the sooner we can finish this dreadful mission."

She nods, smiling.

Roy then chuckles, the glint in his eyes mischievous, "Besides... I can't wait to get out of here and take you out on a proper date."

In an endearing tone, she replies, "We need to get you healthy, first and foremost. Then, we can talk about this  _proper date_ , Mr Mustang."

He lifts an affectionate hand to caress her cheek, feeling her lean into his touch. Softly, he smiles, drawing her to him. "Come here, my Wonder Woman." She pauses halfway and narrows her eyes at him quizzically. He explains, grinning, "Oh, it's just this new superhero comic book I started reading. She's amazing. Like you."

"You're such a sweet talker, you know that?" she chuckles, bringing her face nearer Roy's, pressing her forehead to his. But instantly, with a solemn expression, she breathes, "Roy, you're alive… you have no idea how-"

Desperate to taste her warmth, Roy seals her words with a fervent kiss over her lips, dismissing the roiling ache in his abdomen. Her heavy breaths against his mouth lull his heart, washing him with relief.  _She's here, and she's alive._  In the bliss of her safety, he combs his fingers through her hair, feeling the pounding of his pulse on his wrist, against his skin, sensing the essence of his own existence. "Me too, Riza. You're alive. We're  _both_  alive," he sighs, grateful.

Outside, fat drops of rain pelt the window, scraping the glass. Then, thunder blares in the distance, paling the night. But in this instance, Riza's gaze seems to be lost in his, as his is in hers. For a long moment, all he wants to do is wallow in the joy of being alive, feel the heat of her life beneath his skin. Under the stormy vigil, Riza smiles in gladness. Roy returns her smile, whispering affection, the grim memory of tonight's mission forgotten, all doubt for the future carelessly abandoned.


	16. i remember every breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Enjoy before sh*t hits the fan :)

**Los Angeles, July 14, 1948**

Elio's birthday menu that Riza has planned for weeks prior to Roy's arrival has altered without her conscious decision.

While scanning through the produce rack at the supermarket, she selected two kinds of green apples, tart and sweet. Placing them into her shopping cart, she thoughtlessly sauntered to the lime rack, picking up several of the citrus fruit for a recipe of key lime pie. Then, with a cloudy mind, she entered the meat section and dropped three pounds of ground beef into her cart.  _Must have meatloaf_. She hauled a bag of potatoes, and a variety of ingredients for a savory gravy.  _Must have mashed potatoes also_. As she staggered out of the store with two full, brown bags in her arms, she realized half of the ingredients she bought were for Roy's favorite meals.

In the kitchen, she slices the apples and grates the lime. Her motion is practiced, automatic, like it has been since the year her father was committed to a sanatorium and her mother under the wet, hilly ground. Her heart heavy, Riza shuffles through the din of her thoughts to focus on the one man who springs up unbidden.

Roy hasn't spoken to her about his decision.  _If_  he has a decision. Between spending time with Elio and running errands and working day and night, she has been too exhausted to broach a subject so difficult and weighty by the end of the day.

Surely he wants to stay, Riza muses. At least, it seems as though he does. The amount of attention he showers Elio, his lack of agenda to mold into her schedule, and the fact that many of his belongings have made a cozy home in her apartment - his books tucked into her wall, a photo of his parents propped up on his bedside table, his sweater hung on her coat rack.

But she would understand if he doesn't stay. If her conviction could be swayed by a mere recruiter for the Queen, then she must learn to accept his decision to leave. After all, the family residing in the apartment between 8th Street and Hill was never planned, conceived out of fear for an uncertain future and the possibility of a love lost and wasted. Her only regret for his departure would be the absence of confidence when the time comes for her to explain to their son. How would Elio take it?

Abruptly, the front door cracks open. Roy appears with a tray of eggs and a large, brown bag containing Riza's orders, snuggled against his chest. "Here's the milk and eggs. I also bought some chicken wings, because Elio seemed to really like it when I took him out the other day. Nicolas would probably enjoy it, too. And... maybe I can help you cook?"

"Do you know how to cook? I was under the impression you only know how to eat," Riza quips, readily reserving her train of woeful rumination for another time. Before his mouth can form a rebuttal, she says, unable to hold back her tongue at his narrow, pointed eyes, "I've only seen you make pancakes and eggs. Those don't count."

"Fair enough. I'll help you prep," he says, chuckling lightly.

A week's time seems to have afforded Roy some comfort in her kitchen. Organizing the groceries by laying them out on the counter, he grabs the cutting board and sets aside a clean knife, a drainer in his hand. He doesn't ask her anymore; he looks as if he has everything memorized, where the utensils reside, where the appliances are stored.

Meticulously, he drowns the produce in the sink, meandering between the dish cabinet and the refrigerator, grinding through his role seamlessly. He then catches her lingering stare and strikes up frivolity, asking about everything and nothing - her day and of their son and if she is excited about tonight's party - all the whilst toiling with the ease of a spouse settling into his evening responsibility.

"So I noticed some gifts in the living room when I walked in," Roy mentions, cubing a basketful of potatoes.

Cracking the eggs and whisking it into a foam, Riza answers, "The big one is from your Aunt Chris. It arrived this morning with a card. She said she'll be late to the party. The green one is from Alphonse, Edward's brother. He can't make it tonight, so he dropped it off."

"And the smaller one with the bow?"

"Ah, that one's from Claudio."

The slicing sound of his knife stops.

Riza tilts her head up to find a tinge of displeasure around his mouth. Roy says, his voice amused, "Claudio, huh? That man is trying too hard."

"I didn't invite him, if that's what you're worried about," Riza assuages, chuckling. Shoving the curdled mixture towards him, she says, "Here, taste it and let me know if it needs more sugar."

Gladly, Roy dips a finger, scooping a mass of the yellow custard. He nods approvingly at the large bowl in her hands but tuts at Riza. "Okay, but Claudio better not buy him the same set of books. If he did, I'll burn them all."

"You're turning green, Roy. It's not a good look," she teases.

"I mean, I don't blame the man," he smiles, leaning on the counter, "you  _are_  beautiful."

She chuckles, sampling a small spoonful of the custard into her mouth, "What are you talking about? The gift is for Elio."

"Yes, but we both know what his real intention is. No bachelor would gladly buy a gift for another man's child," Roy says, rolling his eyes, "even if she can cook the best homemade meals I've ever tasted."

"Oh is that all? I'm just a beautiful cook?" she laughs, endearingly, betraying her own vow to keep the string of flirtation out of her way. Only when she realizes how far she has overstepped, she scolds herself into order, her gaze tracking the floor. But Roy keeps his distance, taking not one step closer, as though aware of the promise she made to herself.

His words, however, are anything but. "You're also extremely kind and smart, a wonderful mother, and would make any man very,  _very_  happy," Roy says, staring with a fierce earnestness that colors her cheeks pink. As if sensing her embarrassment, he says, pointing to the bowl in front of her, "And  _maybe_  the best baker in town. I'll be the judge of that when the pie is ready. I'll have you know I've eaten plenty of them since I got here. You're competing against professionals here, Riza."

"All I can say is you best slow down if you don't want to get fat," she says, smirking, "you're much older now. Your metabolism must have slowed down a lot."

"And this conversation is over," he laughs, sauntering to the half-cut potatoes. "What time will Elio be back?"

"Rebecca said just before the party. Around five or so."

"Plenty of time to get everything done. I'm also  _thrilled_  to finally get the chance to meet the famous Rebecca."

She knows exactly what he intends by saying so. His tone rolls with scorn when he speaks it. "You mean why she  _misled_  you of my whereabouts?"

"I have nothing against her," he reassures. "She seems like a great friend from the way you talk about her."

"Well, I never asked her to do anything like that. Although I might have overshared some things with Rebecca about us…" Riza can sense his gaze on her, piercing. "She didn't agree with your decision and said I deserved better."

When she looks up, a remorseful set of dark eyes finds hers. "I'm sorry for everything I've put you through, Riza."

"Elio's the best gift you could have given me. Don't be sorry," she says. Pausing, her eyes soften. "And if you're truly curious, I moved here because I didn't want my past to dictate our lives. But apparently, the damn recruiter found me anyway. So it was useless, really."

His gaze ventures into hers, and he asks, reluctant, as if afraid of her answer, "Was I... a part of this past life that you were trying to leave?"

Immediately, her pulse quickens, and the temperature in the room rises by several degrees. "You were, yes. And I didn't want to take your life away because of a child…" As she speaks the words aloud, she realizes the unfairness of her decision. She bites her lip, out of guilt, and says, "I'm sorry."

He sighs, his gaze mournful as he looks at her, "No, we were both fools."

"We were, weren't we?" she says, quiet and pensive.

Riza is uncertain if Roy is wallowing in contemplation or if the inclination to maintain the conversation, a daunting one at that, has become too arduous. He settles into his task, laboring in uneasy silence, as if the burden of the world is heavy on his shoulders. But his movements are fluid and his eyes seemingly focused. Riza emulates, killing the words in her throat as she immerses herself in the criss-crossing of the dough, layering it atop warm apples and cinnamon.

Within minutes, the pies are ready to be tossed into the oven. On Roy's side, the carrots, potatoes, and onions have been diced neatly, though not without Roy's unbidden tears swelling in his eyes. This earns a surreptitious chuckle from Riza as she struggles to stifle a laughter from bubbling, as if the mirth would exacerbate the discomfort should it be heard.

She shuffles onto the next task. Incidentally, with an eager hand reaching into the spices compartment, she brushes against Roy, their fingers colliding. But the awkwardness still exists, a feverish breeze billowing its stuffy tail into the room.

"Sorry," he says, his sheepish gaze traveling to hers.

"It's okay," she quickly amends, meeting his stare with equal timidity.

Yet, neither takes a step back nor proceeds to move away.

All of a sudden this circumstance takes her back to the foggy, October morning in London, the day she met Roy, in the back seat of a taxi. Unable to tear her eyes away, she hurriedly introduced her full name and asked for his, though she knew perfectly well who he was from the file that was given to her.

 _He was handsome._  That was the thought that flew through her mind as she shook his hand. And she took a second glance, and conceded once again.  _Indeed he was._  But he was also a scientist. And a very passionate one too, she surmised, lifting his lengthy scientific achievements and polished reputation from the piece of typewriter paper.

Donning her mask of professionalism throughout an assignment had worked best in the past, taking her home scot-free, mission accomplished, another partner whose name she could archive in her memory. But with Roy, amplifying her sternness and rigidity had been her mind's first defense against his overt kindness and overprotective disposition. Little did she know the fortification she had built around herself then was made out of sand and water, easily crumbled with the weakest rush of waves.

Now, Riza is in the same position as she was six years ago. She can't tear her eyes away, helplessly smitten by the same scientist who made her pulse race and her stomach twist and turn with delight.

A smile tugs in the corner of his mouth, melting warmth all over her limbs. But his smile hurts. It hurts because there is no permanence in it. Soon, Roy will up and leave, making his dutiful choice known to her once again, the very reason she re-erected her barrier since he's arrived, far away from the reach of the swallowing tides, fortified with stones and rocks this time.

Roy's hand finds her cheek, smoothing the insecurity from her expression with a gentle caress. The next thing she knows, his lips slowly reach for hers, seeking. But rather than succumbing to the desire as she had done in the past, Riza turns her gaze to the side, greeting the refrigerator instead.

_No more disappointment._

"Would you mind grabbing the bread crumbs from that cabinet? I need to make the meatloaf," she says, vaguely pointing and looking away, her tone flat, her voice certain. But if he could see her eyes, he would see that they are wavering slightly from the wind of his affection.

"Um, right... sure thing," he swiftly replies, his hand searching the cabinet.

Her own hands occupy themselves with the massive bag of ground beef, and her hearing focuses on the sound of cabinets creaking open and slamming close. But instead of seeing a box of bread crumbs tossed on the counter beside her, she feels an invasive heat on her back.

Roy's arms wrap a tender cord around her waist. His grip is empty of the item of her asking but firm of a yearning to hold her even closer. Fondly, he buries his face in her hair, tightening his embrace. He whispers with a softness that raises her gooseflesh, making her shudder in the sweltering, summer temperature, "I'm staying, Riza."

Surprised, her heart jumps out of her skin. A surge of emotions overwhelms and pacifies all at once, the dread and the joy weaving together like an unexpected downpour on a clear, sunny day, leaving her in a state of utter disbelief. Is she hearing him properly? The depressing ballad she has been singing to herself of his impending leave is now abridged with three simple words, curtailed by the composer himself.

She turns around, hunting for certitude. Roy's solemn countenance gives way to sincerity and intense conviction, as is his clutch on her. The flicker of a smile in the corners of his mouth paints surety and confidence all at once, providing her a composition of hope.

"Are you sure?" Riza asks, the area between her brows pleating. "Please don't just say that out of pity, because Elio and I will get on fine without you. Like how we've always been," she says, her tone unleashing a severity that belies the excitement in her chest.

His grip is unwavering, firmly planted on her hips. "Yes, I'm sure."

"But what about the Soviet? I was so certain you wanted to be part of that…"

"I'm leaving it to other capable hands," he says, determined, shrugging her doubt with his steadfast voice. "I can't bear to be away from you and Elio."

Struggling with a flood of questions that need appeasing, she asks, stammering, "Wh-what are you going to do then?"

"I've sent a letter to the dean at Berkeley, requesting a letter of recommendation for an adjunct position at the campus here. The rest of my time will be spent helping you at the diner and raising Elio," he says, smiling, "that is, if you'll let me."

Without hesitation, she answers, "Oh Roy, of course, I will," and when she blinks, raindrops trickle down her cheeks, sculpting embankments all the way down to the collar of her shirt. She makes no attempt to hide it, or staunch its stream. Rather, she relishes in the release, stumbling upon happiness and relief as she swims her way down the riverbend, until finally, all is free.

Delicately, Roy sifts through her golden locks with his fingers, his thumb brushing the wetness on her face. He stares at her with a smile, relieved, wistful, and Riza can feel the softness of his lips pressing on her damp skin, mending the trail of sorrow. Anchoring her hand on his forearm, she tilts her head back, languidly, allowing Roy to carve a path of affection down to the line of her jaw.

The beat of her heart rushes to her ears. Yet, she lets it govern her hearing, concentrating on the sensation of his touch instead, turning illusions into truths. Her tears dry, little by little, and on the path he's carved blooms the rose of a promising future. Of a life together.

But abruptly he stops, forcing Riza to straighten her neck. She studies the stretch on his appearance, seeing pain or anguish in the soft grimace.

He drives a hasty hand to his left abdomen, rubbing at what she can only guess is the source of his ache.

"Are you alright?" she asks, worried.

Roy replies to her inquiry with a speechless gesture. He raises a hand, his palm straight in front of her like a priest conferring a blessing, waving it, as if the motion would appease her concern.

"But-"

"I love you," he says suddenly. The words are spoken with a hint of urgency, as though time is running out and all he has left is this confession, the final act before his presence is eventually taken away from her, too.

She looks in his eyes, searching the depth for sincerity, and clarity. What she finds in them are exactly these, and a veritable longing, the vulnerability of which sends shivers throughout her body, raising the hairs on her arms. Only then she allows herself to bury the distress for his well-being and indulge in the tenderness of him. Her fingers trace his cheek, and she leans in to whisper, presenting her heart to him, fully, "I love you, too."

He smiles, finally, and time seems to return to him with the reverent admission.

There is no hesitation when their lips tangle into a familiar dance. What her mouth can't deliver in speech, she conveys in the zeal of her kisses. The mingling of their breaths, the sparse interlude for air, and the whet for a closeness that comes with the deepening strokes, all tell him how much of her heart he possesses.

Time and distance no longer keep them apart. Each of his gentle ministration strips Riza of her insecurities, and she opens the rest of herself up to him, wholeheartedly. At last, she allows his relentless tides to whisk away her barrier, carrying the lone driftwood to shore, where it can bask under the steady sun among the sand and the stones and the rocks.

Riza, her pulse hammering in her chest, clasps an intimate hand over Roy's, his fingers threaded around her buttons. Pushing him backwards, gently and carefully, she leads him out of the confine of the kitchen and into the narrow corridor, her bedroom waiting at the end of it.

Against the door, Roy moors her back, freeing her  _chignon_  with his deft fingers. Without losing their rhythm, he reaches for the zip on her skirt. Then he closes his eyes and draws her lips into his again, drinking from her mouth.

Drunk from his kisses, Riza flounders for his buttons, beginning with the one right below his neckband, and the one after it. Fumbling, she interrupts their passion, her insatiable gaze held unyielding, and runs a nimble hand down the center of his shirt.

Roy curls his arms to the back of her shirt, lifting it up and out of the band of her skirt, until the fabric cinches in disorder around her waist. The front portion is still gathered underneath the belt, but Roy pauses. He says, gliding a curious hand into his pocket, "Riza, before we do this I have something to ask you."

Confused, she glances up at him, her upper back carefully ripped away from the door. Her head tilts to one side, brows creased together.

"I've got it right-"

The doorbell muddles their concentration with its sudden chime, loud and brusque. Flustered, she clasps his buttons in a hurried fashion, the rush of adrenaline carrying her through the motion.

Immediately, Roy appeases her hand, saying, "Wait, whoever it is will go away soon."

She nods in silence.

But the door crows again, multiple rings this time. Urgent.

Biting her bottom lip in consideration, she says, "Maybe Rebecca and Elio are back."

"It's not even three o'clock yet."

"Well, maybe they've finished early," she says, shrugging.

"I'll go get it," Roy says, disgruntled, fixing his buttons as he marches up to the foyer.

She fixes her attire at once, stalking not far behind him.

When Roy opens the door, a familiar face she hasn't seen for a very long time emerges from the afternoon shadow. The buoyancy of his demeanor is unmistakable, and the spike on his black hair is untamed like how it's always been. Maes Hughes greets with a friendly gesture, his white teeth flashed in a wide grin, though the mirth seems feigned, Riza thinks.

"Roy! I had a feeling you'd be here," Maes says, winking, pulling him into a warm hug, which Roy returns in kind. Then, turning to Riza, he rushes in and squeezes her with his arms, the glint in his eyes nostalgic, "Riza! How I've missed you! And please don't kill Armstrong; I had to pull the superior card on him."

"Oh, that snitch!" Riza quips, chuckling and returning the embrace, firm, affable. She ushers him inside, closing the door behind her. With bright eyes from the unexpected visit, Riza leads him to the living room, offering hospitality with coffee or tea, which Maes denies with a quick wave of his hand.

"What brought you here, Maes?" Roy asks, taking the seat next to Riza and across from him.

With fidgety fingers, Maes ruffles his dark strands, the perspiration along his hairline visible. It looks as if the man had dropped all obligations and stowed himself into the earliest flight out, sprinting to her apartment. The corners of his mouth twitch almost imperceptibly when he speaks, "Well, I need to talk to someone who can… sympathize with my situation." Then, he tears a folded paper from his pocket, handing the letter to Riza with a shaky hand.

She takes the letter with reluctance and reads quietly to herself. It dawns on her that the paper has been read many times, or memorized even, the edges crumpled and the creases have drawn a smudgy line across the lettering. When she looks up, the beam that once crossed Maes's expression has been wiped off, swapped by a grim countenance. She says, solemnly, "They want to send you to the Soviet."

Wordlessly, Maes nods. Then he looks to Roy, setting his sight on him with a helpless gaze, as though the man can supply a ready solution to his predicament.

"I see," Roy sighs, pinching the center of his forehead. "Have you talked to Gracia about this?"

"No. I'm at a loss on how to break it to her."

Clasping his hands together, Roy asks, his tone somber, "When is the baby due?"

Maes lets out a soft moan of despair, throwing his back roughly against the sofa cushion, his eyes to the ceiling. Feebly, he answers, the words slurring, "The baby's due at the end of the year, which is around the time they plan on sending me out there."

The room is reticent for a long while, as if grieving Maes's plight. Riza sets her sight on her toes, seeing them writhe against the carpet. But her mind is elsewhere, floating with ruminations of Gracia, a crying baby in her arms whose father won't be around to witness the miracle of life.

Out of nowhere, Riza feels Roy's furtive hand slide into hers, weaving around her fingers, his grip clenching. Mutely, she turns to study his profile, seeing a troubling rift on his expression. He cranks his head to face her, bestowing her a rueful smile. In that moment, Riza perceives the thought that races through his mind. The perfect picture of a family she has envisioned merely minutes ago is chased away in an instant, a storm charging into a serene ocean. Her breath trembles, but in understanding silence, she reciprocates his stiffening clasp.


	17. they say our fate is set in stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter concludes the past timeline. Huge thanks to [A Passing Housewife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flourchildwrites/pseuds/A%20Passing%20Housewife) (flourchildwrites) for her wonderful OC, Trudy :). Enjoy!

**Lyon, December 23, 1942**

The winter in Lyon wakes her up to a window covered in sleet, providing a view to the outside world through a piece of shattered glass. The obscurity of it is much like the missions that have been assigned to her. There is no telling what will happen. The view is obstructed and nature has its own temper. But today will be her last day here should everything goes well. Before she knows it, she will be in another city in a different country, hopeful that this one is left for the better. She should get ready. Prepare for the long day ahead.

She puffs an elongated breath, seeing her life's release in the form of a white cloud. Would it snow today, she wonders, and how would it affect tonight's carefully planned agenda. Conveniently, her body is warm and comfortable, her thinly covered back even more so, shelving her immediate concern for a later deliberation under a hot shower.

Attempting to push herself off the bed, she finds an arresting arm slide around her waist. When she blinks her bleary eyes and hazy head away, she feels the heat of his lips descend on her neck. Roy tightens his embrace, as if telling her to stay just a moment longer.

"Good morning," she chuckles, turning around to face him.

With a hoarse voice from sleep, he smiles, "I'm going to miss this view."

She pokes him endearingly on the cheek. "What are you talking about? I'm not going anywhere."

"What? I can't say that?" he says, grinning. His mouth seeks the peak of her nose, the curls of her lashes, and the center of her forehead. Once he's woken her up completely, he says, "Are you feeling alright this morning?"

She nods, tossing him a curious look. "Yes. Why would you ask that?"

Gently, he brushes her bangs away, draping the long strands behind her ear. "I just want to make sure. You've been looking very exhausted lately. Plus you've been sleeping like a log. That's unheard of."

"It's because I spent the last couple of months taking care of you," she teases, tucking a hand beneath her pillow, "and you're such a big baby."

"And you've taken care of me very well, Miss Hawkeye," he says, smirking with tired eyes, "especially if last night's  _activity_  was anything to go by."

Her cheeks burn despite the biting temperature. She briefly draws her gaze to the scant space between their bodies, widening her eyes at his nakedness, recalling the union of feverish breaths and the twining of two beating hearts.

"Ready for today?" Roy asks, pulling her back to the present.

She nods once, humming her alacrity. "Do you know why it's taken Maes and Trudy so long to compile the package?"

"Well…" Roy replies, hesitant.

But before he can answer, a sickening twist in her stomach provokes her to uncontrollably cough up some of its contents at an alarming urgency. Then something sour and sharp catches her breath, and she heaves once, twice in an unceasing reflex, tasting its foul flavor on her tongue.

"Riza...?" Roy eyes her warily, propping himself up.

Without replying, she springs up from the mattress and races to the bathroom. She holds onto what's left of her control to keep everything repulsive inside, both hands on her stomach for support, her mind rambling through a wave of reasonings for the cause.

Over the toilet bowl, Riza dangles her face so close to the water, her limbs weak and energy spent. Once the discomfort is allayed, she falls inelegantly to the floor, her legs bending awkwardly, her fingers on her forehead, pinching for an explanation.

"Riza, are you okay in there?" Roy calls, his muffled concern apparent behind the closed door.

"I'm fine!" she yells in haste - before he storms into the bathroom and sees the mess she's made of herself. Quickly, she rises and douses her face in the sink, demanding the coldness of the water to bring back some composure. Instead, the sensation brings rationality, making her heart beat faster, louder. She pauses in her state, anxious eyes trailing down her aching shoulders, tender breasts, and towards her upset stomach. It can't be...

A quiet rap on the door. "Sorry to barge in on you like this, but you sounded like you were having a rough time," Roy says, worried. Turning off the faucet, she grabs the towel hanging from his hand, drying her face before preparing herself to face him.

"I… might have eaten something bad."

"Last night's dinner?"

"Yes," Riza replies, convincing herself that this is indeed the case.

Following her out the door, Roy queries, "Can I take you to the doctor?"

"We're meeting Maes and Trudy soon," she says, reasoning her way out.

"I'm sure they'll understand," Roy says.

"A doctor is really  _not_  necessary," she argues.

"Please do this one thing for me. Otherwise I'm going to ask you to stay back and rest," he insists, meeting her eyes with tenacity when a word of refusal hangs from her lips. "Are we really going to spend our time arguing here, Riza?"

"Fine," she grumbles.

The temperature outside is warmer than the inside of the apartment and Riza feels significantly better in an instant. The sky is clear despite the pile of snow all along the cobblestoned back road leading to the resistance safehouse, the fir trees topped with slushes of soft ice. The trek is no more than a thirty-minute stroll, but Riza employs the most sluggish of gait - "just enjoying the view," she says to Roy - that increases their travel time to forty-five minutes.

He proffers his hand to her, which she reluctantly takes with a cautious twist of her head, her eyes scouting for unaccounted souls but finding nothing but a landscape covered in white. The only other reason she doesn't reject his offer is because her hands are snug within a pair of thick, leather gloves. He won't notice the layer of persistent perspiration all over her palms.

The last time she was at the makeshift clinic, the space burned in low light as she guided the doctor to their car and into their apartment, pleading him to tend to Roy's injury. Decidedly, the office is tinier than their own temporary dwelling, located in the deepest basement of the safehouse. Doctor Marco and a young nurse by the name of Satella LeCoulte receive the agents with pleasant smiles. Lightheartedly, the plump, short-haired woman, who has never met the two, commends Roy in the thickest French accent for braving the coldest temperature to find care for his "sick wife."

Riza would have enjoyed rolling her eyes at the nurse's presumptuous statement, flaunting the woman her ringless finger, just to prove a point. But in her state of anxiety, her mind swims energetically with musings of what-could-be. She has no time to correct anyone right now other than mindlessly stare at the two-toned polished tiles, the black and white flooring reminding her of a chess board, a game she used to often play with her mother.

"Riza?" Nurse LeCoulte calls kindly, her rounded belly taunting Riza with troubling thoughts.

Lazily, she flounders towards an expansive, ivory curtain merely thirty steps away. Behind it, a short row of cots line the grey, concrete wall. There are only four beds, each one free of creases and looks as empty as the rest of the office. Judging by the lack of patients, either the members of  _La Résistance_  are in good health or many have suffered the hands of death, their bodies disposed elsewhere but the bed of a temporary hospital. Riza hopes it is the former.

Nurse LeCoulte points to the nearest cot, gesturing for Riza to take a seat. But in wishing to dampen their conversation as much as possible, Riza requests the furthest one, where the surgeon's bright light floods the entire back wall. As she perches herself at the edge of the bed, regret washes over her immediately. The nurse angles the lamp, putting the unwilling performer under the yellow spotlight, and Riza can't help but feel exposed, down to the bone.

"Where is it painful?" the nurse asks.

"It's not pain. I vomited my dinner from last night. Once that was out, I feel completely fine," Riza answers with certainty, hoping for Nurse LeCoulte to believe her and send her back out to the waiting room where Roy was last seen uneasily standing around. "I'm fine now. Really."

"Well, I would be a terrible nurse if I just dismiss you with a case of food poisoning," she says, her mouth pouting disapprovingly. "Did your husband eat the same thing as you?"

Irritable, Riza replies, "Roy is  _not_  my husband. And yes, we ate the same thing. Some vegetable ragout from a can."

"Okay, and he is fine, yes? No vomiting?"

"No vomiting. I just got the bad end of the pot."

The pen in the nurse's hand slinks down the clipboard, tapping against it every so often before jotting down some more. The woman looks up. "Dizziness and headache?"

Reluctantly, Riza answers, "A little bit of both... but I've been sleeping more than the necessary amount. It could be from that."

"Hmm, sleeping more than the necessary amount, huh?" Nurse LeCoulte asks, one eyebrow raising in a way Riza doesn't appreciate, catching the pen in between her uneven teeth. "And do you feel tired most days?"

Her temper is building in her chest. Riza contends, "Between taking care of my  _injured_  partner and assisting with the establishment of  _Organisation de Résistance de l'Armée_ , I am absolutely, without a doubt, tired most days."

But her unusual insolence only seems to encourage the nurse. "And I see you are also irritable." Her pen moves again, longer and more deliberate this time.

Sighing, Riza says, her shoulders slumping in defeat, "What are you trying to say, Nurse LeCoulte?"

The woman ignores her inquiry. "When did you last have your menses?"

Riza lifts her cheekbones in displeasure. "Excuse me?"

Patiently, Nurse LeCoulte repeats her question, her appearance unchanging, persistent and seemingly knowing. Riza has no choice but relent, "Mine has never been regular. Maybe two months ago."

"Thank you," she says, checking off something on her chart. "Last question. Are you sexually active?"

By the time she grasps the full meaning of the nurse's inquiry, Riza could have sworn nervous sweat has poured out from under her fringe. The irritating heat on her back is palpable, and the surgeon's lamp only exacerbates the scarlet on her cheeks. Admitting to Nurse LeCoulte of what has been on her mind is a misstep on a mountainside. But hearing a possible confirmation from the woman's thin, pink lips will push her off the steep cliff.

With a slamming pulse under her skin, Riza says, her voice suppressed by the fear lodged in her pipe, "If I tell you yes… are you going to tell me that I could be-" she swallows, hard, "pregnant?"

Setting the chart down on her lap, the nurse says, "Not could be. I'm quite sure you are. Of course, Doctor Marco will have to check you thoroughly before concluding anything. But between us women, I am confident." She rubs her protruding belly affectionately, smiling, "I am pregnant myself, at week fourteen."

For a brief moment, all Riza tastes is the same nauseating sensation climbing up her throat. Her head is as light as a feather, her vision staggering side to side, shoving the pungency onto her tongue that sends her running for the nearest basin. In it, she spills not only what her stomach lurches but also her nagging doubt and suspicion. It's confirmed, she decides morosely. And she pulls in a deep, calming breath as she swings her heavy eyes at Doctor Marco, entering the room with another chart in his hand.

The good doctor validates Nurse LeCoulte's statement and tells Riza it will take him some time to determine the number of weeks. What he tells her thereafter flits in and out of her ears as a fast as a moving train. She can only stare distantly, a spontaneous nod every now and then at the doctor and his words of advice, her mind teetering between nightmare and reality.

When she lumbers back to the waiting room, she can barely meet Roy's concerned gaze. He leaps from his seat at once, impatient, yanking his hands from his pockets. "So? What did Doctor Marco say?"

Her lulling heartbeat is hammering in her chest for the hundredth time. If she tells the truth, would he ask her to stay back tonight? If she tells the truth, would Roy react terribly? And Riza finds that the second pill is harder to swallow at the moment. She distracts him with a relieved smile, reassuring him, "Nothing. It's just a cold."

* * *

 

**Saint Dié, France**

By dusk, her queasy stomach has subsided and Riza marvels at the flatness of it in the elongated mirror in the women's washroom. Twice she spins, billowing her tight-pressed, coral gown while boring a dubious gaze at herself from a different angle. She pats her belly like she would the soft head of a stranger's dog, careful and wary, afraid it would chomp her hand.

The car ride to the Saint Dié  _mairie_  - town hall - was spent convincing her own brain to accept the truth. Maes was at the driver's seat with Roy next to him, chatting profusely about something that didn't catch her attention. In the back, Riza sat in silent agitation beside Trudy. Riza plastered her eyes to the fast blur of leafless trees alongside the eerie highway, thinking to herself which would be the best course of action, what options would she have.  _What would her mother have done?_   _Rebecca?_  Noticeably, the stout woman honed a curious glance at her that grew sharper each time, seemingly concluding something about Riza's peculiarity. Hoping to avoid unnecessary questions from the keen woman, Riza latched her sight at Maes and Roy, attempting to understand their heated conversation.

"I could get him here within a month, you know," Maes said, a pressing tone, "you don't have to do it. If anything, he might be a better pick than you, considering the shape you're in."

"No. We've been delayed enough already. I didn't think my injury would take so long to heal but I'm completely fine now," Roy replied, assertive. Then with a softer tone, he muttered, "I'm just a little upset that I can't say anything about it..."

Staring at her own reflection, Riza begins to ponder a little bit of their conversation, though her mind will constantly circle back to the thought of life growing inside of her. After a few unsuccessful attempts, she bookmarks all of her preoccupation, and with a firmer gait, strides onto the jubilant soiree, the  _mairie_  filled end-to-end with French scientists of  _Kaiser-Wilhelm Gesellschaft_ \- a Nazi scientific institution involved in weapons research - and their select family members.

"Ah, there you are,  _mon ami_ ," Maes says, swooping her arm and clutching it close to his side. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Where's the package?"

Riza plants a modest hand on her small purse, looking ahead with a guileless beam, "In here."

" _Très bien_. Doctor Adolphe Jung from the plant is here."

"You've scanned the hall already?"

"A couple of no-name German officers tonight, a few stationed Nazi soldiers by the entrance. I'm not too worried. We'll proceed as planned."

Attentively, her eyes wade through the brimming room. Without much effort, she spies Roy in his white suit, the bright shade sprouting like weeds among an island of black suits and several grey Nazi uniforms. Next to him stands a middle-aged man, his pencil mustache as dark as his attire - contrasting to Roy's - and he seems to be introducing her partner to a group of older men - scientists, from the looks of it. "Is that him? Is that Doctor Jung?"

Maes hums his answer, winding an apologetic path with his hand motion through the energetic throng. He takes her to a spot furthest from the mingling guests, behind the buffet table.

Reaching into her purse, Riza digs for her party invitation, bringing the rectangular envelope into the open. Inside, the railway schedule that transports the heavy water material from the Saint Dié plant to Nazi Germany will need to be delivered to Doctor Jung, the man tasked to infiltrate  _Lourde_. Once the item arrives in his hand, it will close the book on their two-month long assignment, one that brought an unexpected intimacy and the biggest surprise of her life.

"Riza," Maes whispers suddenly.

She lends her ear to him, their voices drowned in the bustling prattle. " _Oui_?"

Nonchalant, Maes says, his French accent flawless as always, "Something's going on between you and Roy, _n'est-ce pas?_ " His gaze drills at her pointedly, as if asking for confirmation.

She turns to face him, her heart skipping a beat when her expression gives away nothing. "What makes you say that?"

"For one, you two aren't playing the same roles anymore, and yet you still keep up with the act. Roy is much worse than you."

Normally, she would deflect with the most convincing act. Tonight, the corrosive thought and crystallizing emotion finally take a toll. She answers, unrepentant, crass, " _Ça ne te regarde pas_ , Maes." That's none of your business.

"It's not," Maes says quietly. The man seems composed, taking no offense at her rising pitch. Instead, guilt clouds his eyes, from the way he eludes her obstinate stare, enduring the plain view of the stage wall rather than retorting. Finally, he orients her direction, cupping her shoulders with a light squeeze. Through his boxy-rimmed spectacles, Riza observes the emerald of his eyes, honest and sincere. "As your superior, I couldn't tell you anything because it isn't necessary for you to know; the less who know about it the better. But as your friend, you should know that Roy isn't coming back with us."

With a tentative drag of her heels, Riza blunders impulsively against the wall, her tongue forgetting her French, "What did you say?"

Maes reminds her gently, " _Il reste derrière_." He stays behind, he says. When shock flashes across her face, Maes exhales a shivering breath, explaining softly, "The package you're delivering is not just the schedule. You're also delivering Roy, making sure he gets here safely. Doctor Jung's already working at the plant and he's getting Roy in so they can complete the mission."

"But I thought the mission ends tonight?"

"Your part ends tonight. Roy and Doctor Jung will complete theirs here. Besides, the London office will need you to translate the documents that come our way. Then you'll be back in the field-"

His words coil into the air, abandoned in a heartbeat. Without further ado, Riza storms through the jangling crowd, separating the man with the most attractive smile from a sea of blithesome guests. Ignoring the absorbing discussion, she taps Roy on the shoulder. The older men - scientists, as she now confirms - pounce an appraising stare instantly, seemingly offended at her ill-timed interruption. Steely, she dismisses their glare and looks at Roy, pleading. " _Puis-je vous parler un instant?_ " Can I talk to you for a minute?

In a vacant corner of the  _mairie_ , she begins her interrogation, her tone brittle, "Is it true?"

"Is what true?" Roy asks. His mystified expression urges her to slap him across the face.

"That you're staying behind," she breathes, "that you're going to infiltrate the plant with Doctor Jung."

"Maes told you," Roy simply says, his gaze somber.

Her blood begins to boil. "When were you planning on telling me?"

Running frustrated fingers through his slicked hair, Roy says, "I couldn't tell you, Riza. I was under strict orders not to."

"So you've known this whole time?"

Sighing dejectedly, he answers, almost begging, "Yes, and I'm sorry. I would tell you if I could. Really."

She challenges him, "What if you had died back at the  _château_? Who would have they sent in your stead?"

"They've trained a backup just in case, but I told Maes I'm fine and that I'd recover in time. And I did," he replies soberly. His readiness for every question coats a bitterness on her tongue.

"How long?" she hisses.

"What?"

"How long are you supposed to do this for?"

"I don't know, Riza. There was no timeline. I suppose until Paris is liberated, until the war is over… until whenever my country relieves me of my duty." Caressing the tense line of her jaw, he soothes, "But I'll be back. I promise. I still owe you a date after all."

Then fear takes over in a sudden, dizzying sensation, spinning the world around her. She thinks of the pinch she's gotten herself into, of the little life living inside of her. Of Roy's absence that she doesn't foresee. "Roy…" she squeaks, the sedative inhalation sounds like a weep of despair under her breath, shaky and timid. "I'm pregnant."

Stunned, his wide eyes cling to her, roaming her expression. "Wh-what?"

"I'm pregnant," she repeats, her firm voice projecting the courage she doesn't know she possesses. But it falters as soon as a string of uncertainty leaves her lips, "And it's yours. And I just found out this morning. And I didn't think it was going to happen considering how safe we... No, I suppose that's not-" She tails off when Roy suddenly catches her fluttering figure, burying his face so quickly that she is no longer a witness to his startled appearance.

"Riza-" he croaks, gripping her with a new kind of desperation that feels unsteady. Powerless. "What- Do you-" he trails, his uncertainty similar to hers, manifesting in the sloppy snare of his words.

The panic that has been residing in her stomach rises up the well, filling her completely. She can feel his trembling breath nip at her hair, rustling her golden waves as he tightens his tottering embrace. In his arms, she hears his rapid drumbeat pounding in his chest, louder than any she's ever heard. Louder than the nights in which he rested closely against her, sharing the same intimate space of their cot.

Wavering, she chokes, "What- What do you want to do, Roy?"

Roy takes a reckless step back to look at her, tripping on his own reluctant footing. She can see his wary eyes, guarded with a timidity she has never seen before. "I- I don't know, Riza… What do you… What do you think I should do?"

A garish, unexpected anger bursts quickly, and for a fleeting second, she cares little for the unsuspecting audience around her. She strikes the wall of his chest, packing all of her strength into it. "How do you  _not_  know what  _you_  want to do?" Roy doesn't look shocked at her rage, but his irritating silence and the paleness of his face sparks a madness she never knew she was capable of. "How is it that you  _can't_  tell me what  _you_  want to do?"

He closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath. His hands clasp on her shoulders, flinching imperceptibly, but his voice is even now, more lucid, "Let us both calm down and discuss this objectively."

"Objectively? This  _isn't_  a mission, Roy," she growls under her breath.

His dewy hand catches the flush on her cheeks, his thumb rubbing a gentle circle on her skin. "To be completely honest, I've never thought about children seriously before tonight," Roy says, his voice steady, his tone genuine. "For the longest time, I've always been about moving around, going from one place to another, doing what the country asks of me." Then he stares into her eyes, the intensity of which grounding her for the first time tonight. "But I also know that it has crossed my mind a few times since I met you."

Mutely, Riza nods.

"My feelings haven't changed. I want to be with you," he says. "But I also can't just leave what I've promised myself to see through." His voice shakes once more. "I have to finish this, Riza. You  _must_  understand."

She understands. She knows it all too well.

The itch on her fingers when she was sat in front of a pew of SEO agents at 64 Baker Street had grown uncontrollable. There was no need to ascertain her willingness with a concerned line of questioning, schooling her that the clandestine organization does not function like the militaristic one she was accustomed to, telling her the loneliness and frustration she would have to endure. As if these weren't enough to get her to cower, one of the agents insisted that the training would be tougher, stricter, and the job would be riskier and deadlier. But all she had for them was a convincing nod after nod, dismissing danger in lieu of the tiniest chance to help those in need.

In solemnity, she recalls the printed words on his agent file, above the name Roy Mustang and a list of his achievements. She says, " _De oppresso liber_." To free the oppressed. The OSS's slogan.

" _De oppresso liber,"_  Roy repeats with confidence, nodding.

"I see," she says, smiling mournfully. Then she meets his intense gaze with a fierceness of her own, one that she'd like to believe wavers his resoluteness in the slightest. "Then you must understand when I say that I can't continue to do what I do if I want to raise this child properly."

"Think about what you're leaving behind, Riza. Are you sure?"

"Of course not," she scoffs.

"Roy? Are you ready meet the rest of the staff at Lourde?" Doctor Jung interrupts from behind, resting a friendly hand on Roy's shoulder which prompts her partner to turn around. He lifts an index finger at the German scientist. One moment, he requests.

Roy whirls back to her, his eyes stumbling upon hers with a momentary hesitance, as if second guessing his own conviction. But when his speech is clogged in his throat, Riza smiles and speaks for him, telling him in her most reassuring voice, her gentle fingers on his cheek, that she will be alright, that she is strong, all the while chanting the phrases in her head so that they become a reality. When he looks at her once more, wordless, she tells him effortlessly that he should do what he needs to do and that this should not be holding him back.

"I'll find you," Roy whispers, brushing his soft lips on the whorl of her ear, "when this is all over, I'll look for you, Riza."

With his last words, Riza watches him dive into the murk, parting the black ocean with a staunch back. His determined gait is absolute, echoing an answer surer and clearer than the flicker of his gaze or the foil of his pallid face. Roy disappears into the water without another glance, his loyalty in his chest, his vigor on his sleeve, and any reluctance she may have sensed on his behalf is now buried beneath the veracity of his posture.

Making her peace, Riza heads the opposite direction. With a tentative plan set in motion, she scrambles for the most suitable place to raise her child. Away from the madness of the war and far away from her crestfallen heart... to find a place where she can forgive and forget.


	18. quiet dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Now that we've gotten this far, I thought I'd share the [Atlas playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/ruikosakuragi/playlist/6tiFOl8vZrtzYZ85uEf2rN?si=EXtR5zKQTPqta7mMCmya-g) (all instrumental, no vocals). This specific chapter was written to "On the Nature of Daylight" by Max Richter. Feel free to listen to it while reading for that extra punch in the gut :)
> 
> Thank you to [A Passing Housewife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flourchildwrites/pseuds/A%20Passing%20Housewife) (flourchildwrites) for beta'ing this chapter and lending me one of my favorite OC's Gertrude Merryweather. And thank you to [muguetmuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/muguetmuse/pseuds/muguetmuse) (ceruleankabukicho) for the read-through.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Los Angeles, July 14, 1948**

There is nothing particularly beautiful about the view from the balcony on 8th Street and Hill. For the past fifteen minutes, Roy has been sharing a television screen with the male stranger across the street. The man's back is towards the open window, the outline of his shoulders quaking as he cackles to a run of  _Mary Kay and Johnny_ , a show about a zany wife and a run-of-the-mill, bank employee husband and their daily shenanigans. Theirs could have been his life and Riza's, spent worrying about laundry and groceries, spying on the neighbors, and living in blissful ignorance within the four corners of their home.

Time and again, Roy would set his sight heavenward, past the stranger's Victorian edifice and past the humdrum of the dark, backstreet alley. With his eyes to the sky, he wallows in the darkness of the night, seeing faint stars and the otherworldly lands of the moon's craters. But what purpose would an enchanting view serve if his mind would only jog a sinuous course to the image of his family?

When Christine Mustang rounds the bench to sit beside him, Roy finds the distraction timely. He swirls the last of his whisky, devouring the spirit in one large gulp, idly wishing his difficulty would go spiraling down along with it.

"Riza has moved all of your belongings into her room. I'm taking over the guest room for the night," Chris says, pilfering a roll of cigarette from her breast pocket.

"That's fine," he mutters, fixing a distant eye into the now empty glass.

Setting a steady gaze on Roy, she asks, "What's on your mind, Roy-boy?"

He sighs, mindlessly trailing Riza's scantily clad neighbor as the man rises from his couch with a slender box in his hand, pondering how to answer the burly woman. "I'm going to miss this terrible view," he says. The woman raises an eyebrow. Roy elicits a derisive laugh, scoffing, "When I'm in Moscow, this is all I'm going to want to remember. A half dressed man, eating pizza and watching  _Mary Kay_."

She chuckles, "I'm glad you still got some jokes in you."

"Got it from dad, I suppose," he murmurs, his thumb triangulating the grooves of the glass.

"But that's not really what's on your mind, is it?"

Looking up at her hesitantly, with eyes full of contemplation, he asks, "Do you think I should have gone back with Riza that night?"

Chris's expression is stark, unreadable, as though his question has simply flitted through the air and was never heard. The smoke from her cigarette only obscures it further, and Roy itches to whirl his hand and scatter the haze, if only to see that a furrow collects between her brows or a trench has cut a path through her forehead.

But Chris finally replies to him, in a voice nonchalant but ejecting all the wisdom of her years, "You wouldn't have known if the other was the better choice." She puffs, relaxing against the bench, "That image is perfect because you never lived through it."

Sighing, Roy says, "I suppose..."

"Maybe you would have been back at your old post," she says, tamping the roll with her finger. "Maybe you two would have gotten married, and have three kids instead of one."

Roy calls to mind the days preceding his leave. Under the starry breadth of Lyon and its frosty walls, the soft murmur of her body against his had been constant and safeguarding, more than the brick barrier of the safehouse itself. With an arm wrapped around her, he had reveled in the life and warmth flooding out, taking him to a pleasant meadow with the calmest of breeze as she dipped her brush and painted an image of his future. Then the kindness of slumber reeled in, slow and certain, and every stroke became clearer and more mesmerizing each time.

That could have been his from the start.

"Or maybe the war would've have gone on longer if you hadn't been there. Maybe hundreds more would have been wounded. Or worse, dead. Can you imagine that?" Chris asks. Then she chuckles suddenly, blowing a whiff, "Maybe Elio would have been called Kal-El if you had been here. Do you see how so many things could've gone very,  _very_  wrong?"

Roy laughs at the thought, "Very funny, Aunt Chris."

The earnest laughter lasts but a moment; the doldrums of an unpredictable future grate into the air once more, scraping off the remnants of mirth between the company. In the contemplative silence, Chris rises from her seat, puffing a gust of smoke before daubing the butt into the ashtray beside her. She claps his shoulder, hard, resting her hand there with a consoling squeeze, "I am proud of you, Roy. And I know your parents would be, too."

With a threadbare smile, Roy nods appreciatively. He tails her short path back inside before stowing himself into the quietness of the night once again, allowing the cool, summer breeze to peck at his cheeks.

Riza emerges from the sliding door soon after, a thin, gossamer blanket in her hand. She drapes the intricately spun cotton over both of them, letting her shoulder graze his when she leans her back against the plush cushion.

"Hey," Roy greets, summoning a genial smile over gloomy countenance. "Elio in bed?"

"He won't let me dry his hair, so I allowed him some reading time until then. Aunt Chris is with him."

Roy chuckles, "Well, it's still his birthday for another three hours. We can let him stay up a half hour longer."

"Ah. Now I know why he's so attached to you in such a short time," Riza says, a knowing smile teasing the corner of her lips, "I discipline him, and you throw all my effort out the window by spoiling him."

"How can you say no to that face he makes?" he grins, taking her closest hand and clasping it affectionately between his own. "And it's not spoiling, it's  _loving_."

As he shakes with absurd delight, Riza eases a soft hand on his cheek, tracing his pronounced jawline until her fingers reach the curve of his chin. He stares at her, anticipating. She twists his face towards her and clings a persistent gaze into his. Valiantly, she declares, with a voice louder than usual, as if the intensity of her volume would prevent a certain, brewing sentiment from pouring out, "Elio and I will be here when you return."

Though Roy can look no further into the future than the determined gleam in her eyes, he readily nods his vow. He then counts the number of days until he departs the tenderness of her touch and the toothy grin of his son.

"We have five months until you have to go. We'll spend it together as much as we can," Riza says, as if hearing his thoughts. "And I will write to you," she adds, her tone vehement.

A flare of frustration simmers in his chest. He exhales long and slow, contending, "Mailed correspondences aren't allowed for clandestine missions, Riza. You know this."

"I've thought about it," she says, considering. "If I send the letters directly to your handler's house, she can hand them to you in person."

He pauses to think, murmuring to himself, "I suppose that could work... if she'll do it."

"I'm confident Trudy will come through for us, especially if our past working relationship is anything to go by. I just need to know the frequency of your rendezvous with her."

"Once in July. Unless I finish sooner, then I can reach out to her before then."

She frowns. "That's it? Just once?"

Throwing her a playful grin, he says, "It just means I need to work faster, so I can come home sooner."

Glaring at him, she scolds, "I don't want you to work faster. I want you to work  _safer_." But in the sternness Roy can see the despondency on her features, in the sloping of her brows, in the defeated fray along the seam of her mouth, which she hides behind the severity of her words.

In the next round of conversation, Roy spends his time consoling her with the prospect of an easy, straightforward mission. He reaffirms the high possibility of finishing as early as in a month. And he reminds her now and again that capturing proof against a suspected mole is as difficult as picking a prized poppy from a neighbor's garden. With little luck, it proffers no risks if one is skilled, and only insignificantly tougher if green and untrained. She nods in agreement, recalling her own experience, though the tale she weaves from memory seems to jog all the things that could have gone sideways.

"You could still get seriously injured," she says gravely, "one wrong move is all it takes."

When he quips about her nursing him to health, wearing a specific white outfit in the process, her sullen pout returns. "It's not funny," she crows. Roy apologizes before pointing out that he's a veteran. He has dived through years of life-threatening missions, such as the one they had gone through in London and Paris, and still emerged alive and full of appalling jokes. At this her mouth curls upward, reluctant but seemingly appeased. He reciprocates the expression, grinning, even as every bone in his body rattles from his own doubts.

At the end of their discussion, Riza takes his hand and swipes a warm thumb over his shivering skin. The gesture is meant to be affectionate. But as he discerns the rough calluses, evidence of her arduous past life, the plausibility of death leaches the little confidence he has left, plummeting his heart deeper than the point of pain. Roy wilts under her touch, and he can't help but lean his body forward, drawing comfort from her lips when the fear of never seeing her again has become all too perceptible.

"Daddy, what are you doing?"

Roy stiffens and opens his eyes. When he turns around, he finds Elio standing in an awkward pose, eyeing him curiously in the much too cramped balcony.

"Where's Grandma Chris, Elio?" Riza inclines her head to stare at the boy, her tone demanding.

"She went to take a shower," the child answers plainly, shrugging.

Scooping Elio gently onto his lap, Roy wraps the blanket over him. He brings his damp head to rest against broad chest. "You should be sleeping, Elio. It's late."

"But I'm not sleepy and my hair's still wet," the boy murmurs into Roy's shirt, "and what were you doing to mommy anyway?"

Roy chuckles, the outline of his shoulders quivering from amusement. Swiftly, he searches for Riza's expression, finding a shy smile that placates him momentarily. He draws his gaze to the child in his arms, patting down the black strands that begin to stick out as they dry.

"Well... when two people love each other..." Roy begins, unsure. Riza immediately laughs beside him, an endearing sound he swiftly soaks to memory as he joins her mirth. Elio looks up, a confused look on his face, and Roy finishes his train of thought, "When two people love each other, sometimes they kiss."

"You love mommy?" Elio asks innocently, his brows rising in amazement.

"I do," Roy says, feeling Riza's tender hand lace into his as he speaks, the band of gold filigree he has slipped on her finger only hours before cool against his skin. Roy curves a content smile. He kisses Elio on the crown of his head, cradling the little body as he whispers fondly, "And I love you, too, buddy."

Suddenly, the apartment building across the alley crumbles to the ground, instantaneous, exposing a black sky pillaged of the glimmer of its stars and the light of the moon. The darkness that envelopes is quickly replaced with a brightness that blinds, sunlight reflecting its brilliance on a bed of pure, pristine snow. Roy is forced to shield his sight from the glare, raising a hand up.

When he lowers his cover, he looks down. His chest is stolen of Elio's somnolent figure, and his hand is empty of Riza's affectionate hold. Dread wells up his body, filling it to the brim. He fumbles for something to brace, a berth to moor his sinking ship. But before long, the most painful sting jabs into his stomach, rippling through his limbs. Excruciating. And all is white.

Roy opens his eyes, waking up to a pair of heavy lids fluttering against the oppressive sun.

As his body lies on the damp concrete, eyes shot towards the sky, time returns to him slowly. The ghost of quick, receding footsteps and echoing gunshot noise jogs in his ears. It mingles with the plaintive song of the sparrows, gliding past the open dome of the abandoned cathedral.

He gains his memory then.

Today is not July 14, 1948.

Today is July 26, 1949. One year and twelve days after the event of Elio's birthday.

It is an ordinary Tuesday in Moscow's summer season. Her sticky breeze undulates throughout the rural village of Gorodkovo, where Roy fell unconscious and was roughly awoken with a sharp sting to his stomach.

For the past seven months, Roy had spent every waking moment shadowing a man by the codename of Charles, a physicist turned spy who was feared to have been supplying atomic information from the British to the Soviet Union. The man was irritatingly prudent. Not once did he make the mistake of showing his true allegiance throughout what Roy deemed to be the coldest, most miserable winter of his life.

Then came July.

A tip from Trudy took him to the hilly trek of Moscow's countryside, to a secret meeting that was supposed to take place between the informant and his handler. Once there, Roy had finally afforded the proof he had spent so long seeking. He captured photographs of the barter, and as luck would have it, hearing a conversation that spelled out the date the Soviet Union will test their first nuclear weapon. August 29, 1949. A momentous day. Only one month from today and three years ahead of what the Americans had predicted.

Passing through a decaying structure on his return, Roy sought shade and paused to rest. His abdomen tightened. Air fled his lungs as rapid as the wind rolling past his hair. He leaned against the jutting bones of what was once a hulking pillar, heaving, breathless. He had wondered if it was his age catching up to him. Or maybe it was his old wound slowing him down.

Maybe it was his weariness from the constant yearning for his family. For Riza and Elio.

Then Charles emerged out of nowhere, as if the man had been waiting for the precise moment to strike. Behind a half-torn wall, the man stood woodenly, the redness of the brick bleeding into his cheek. Behind the round spectacles, his timid expression told Roy the man was no killer, even with a pistol held surely in his grip.

"Why are you following me?" he demanded.

"Please. I just want to talk," Roy replied calmly. He lifted his hands in surrender, showing the absence of a weapon. Expecting his heart to race into his ears, Roy was surprised to find it tepid, as if this circumstance had only evened out the fear and fatigue to give him composure.

"I know you have a gun concealed somewhere underneath. Take it out and put it on the ground. Kick it here! And tell me who sent you!" Charles ordered, his voice clear, his movement certain. But there was a fray in his severity, in his hurried tone and frantic eyes.

"If you come with me without a fight, the country will forgive you. Your sentence will be light and just," Roy said, buying time. "And your wife Grete will be safe, too. You don't want the military to take her in for questioning, do you?"

"Shut up!" Charles barked. "Just take the damn weapon out!"

Roy complied. But as he slowly set his pistol on the ground, halfway bending, Charles fired, aiming a calculating bullet somewhere towards Roy's head. But his unskilled hand and faltering grip had pierced it into his stomach instead. Charles grabbed the weapon and searched his body, patting and scrambling, for everything and anything that could incriminate him. When Roy grabbed his wrist, Charles struck him on the face, hard, with the back of the pistol.

Then everything went black, if only for a moment.

_14 February 1949. The streets outside of the apartment were lively with carnations and rose petals, scattered all over the paved roads and sidewalks. In uncontrollable excitement, Elio took his toy truck out of the confines of his room, begged me to let him outside, and sprinted out the door as soon as I nodded. The dry, winter wind hurled past every now and then, but the weather was mostly even tempered, as if to know that everyone wanted to be out and about, honoring the patron of love and romance. Couples hand-in-hand with smiles brighter than sunshine itself was a sight to behold._

_I gobbled it all up as I stood there, watching, and I remembered us._

Last week, Trudy appeared in person, her heavy set build prowling in the shadow. The English woman handed him a fat bundle of letters, smuggled from her home and into Roy's temporary dwelling. Each one was cleverly addressed to the woman's vacation house in Bath. There must have been at least twenty. Or thirty. "I'm not supposed to see you for another two weeks, but I want to give these to you earlier," Trudy had said, "to give you some hope until the day your assignment ends."

_25 March 1949. The recruiter for the SIS turned up at our house this morning, his nose long and villainous, much like the man's disposition. He wanted to drag me back to London, schooling me I needed to fulfill my duty to my country. I resisted his vehemence just as I had done before, and this time I had my discharge papers to defend me. When he stood and shouted, insisting what a terrible mistake I made, I threw a bowl of batter at him, sullying not only his pride and reputation but his prim and proper attire, too. Elio gaped at me but I felt no remorse._

_I shouldn't have lost my temper. I should've set a better example for our son, and for that, I am sorry. I could have told him I've divorced the Crown and married my family and left it at that._

With the letter in his hand, Roy had settled his thoughts on Riza, all feisty and harsh, and he laughed. But the sound he projected turned from delight to a moan to a whimper. Then it was a rasp, ugly and salty, as a streamlet trickled down his face. In his head, however, he tucked his melancholy away, wiped his tears, and willed his laughter to radiate the pure elation in his heart.

_3 May 1949. Maes and Gracia visited today, all smiles and laughter. They introduced us to Elicia Hughes, a beautiful baby girl, doe-eyed, with a soft mane of brown hair. Elio took a fast liking to her, poking a curious eye into her carriage as many chances as he could afford. When the baby cried, Gracia picked her up and pacified her. Then she handed her to me, and I couldn't stifle the delight on my lips._

_Holding her in my arms reminded me of baby Elio, welcomed into the world on a sweltering Wednesday. I had stared at his hair then and thought of you, marveling in the similarities you both shared._

Painting a mop of unkempt locks like his, a set of hazel eyes like hers, and an untainted smile along a tiny mouth reminiscent of the both of them, Roy had chuckled. He leaned against the bedpost, envisioning the motion picture of their early years. He had a vision of holding baby Elio in his arms, scanning for similarities, finding himself taking the greatest pride in his thick bed of black hair. The same color as his.

_Four years later and Elio was rarely seen without a book in his hand. In his rucksack, he had hidden another. "Just in case we go out, mummy," he had said. I remember grinning like a mad woman for hours on end, incredulity on my face._

_That day reminded me of the time I returned from my morning jog in London, not long after we met. I entered the room, huffing and puffing, and you didn't even lift your chin. You were too engrossed in that thick book of yours, eyes plastered, mind wrapped in concentration._

Roy had read and memorized each moment rolled in ink, Riza's letters stewing a longing for the home so wonderfully described under her meticulous pen. But what burgeoned besides longing was not hope as Trudy had believed. It was grief and regret - grief for a realization that came too late, and regret for the six years of their past he never knew.

_Elio is you._

_Inside and out._

His eyes flit open, fighting against the darkness that intimidates. Moscow is beautiful. But he wants to go home. Now, more than ever.

Something acrid spills from his torso and he can feel it crawl towards his entire left side, the sensation of a tarantula's hairy legs, tickling and raising the hairs on his arms. The further down it crawls, the less he's willing to move. The less he's willing to move, the more his eyes threaten to close. Strangely enough, though his limbs have been spun in its web, unwilling to bear the fight, his brain is as sharp and vivid as he needs it to be.

He wills her letters to burgeon, the ones in her pretty scrawls. Before his mind is taken away from him, too.

_12 June 1949. Claudio stopped by the diner, dropping off some books for Elio. Rebecca had been there with me. She remarked how rich and handsome he looked and said that I should keep him in the back of my mind should things go sour between us. I reminded her that I am happily married. "It was a joke," she said with that mischievous tone of hers._

Someone roars from behind him, a familiar female voice, "Stay awake, Roy! Help is coming!" The words are spoken in flawless English, an unexpected respite from the alluring cluster of Russian phrases that Roy has grown accustomed to hearing at the market and on the streets.

He tilts his chin up, but exhaustion claims victory and he resigns his gaze to the heavens, unable to sketch a face to the voice. The deteriorating dome begins to glow, revealing a hidden serpent glaring from above, its speckled body adorned in gold and silver, long and never-ending.

_But I had no laughter in between her jests. I simply stared at her with a long face, half glowering and half sulking. I sat in silence longer than I could remember. Only when Rebecca asked what was wrong had I found my speech. All I said to her was, "Nothing."_

"This might hurt a bit," the voice says, shushing, hushed. Then it happens. His left side bellows, angry, kicking and screaming, and Roy drags his hand to pacify. But it never reaches the spot. Instead, it finds a warm pool, and his fingers tread in place.

Briefly, Roy sees himself floating onto the red sea, his body rocking with the gentle tides, weightless and free. The soaring steeple is mangled, crocheted with rotten woods, leaving him in welcomed peace with the afternoon's brilliance, the sunlight shimmering his complexion.

_What I did not tell Rebecca was that I miss you. I miss the way you softly tucked my hair behind my ear. I miss that playful smirk you interspersed throughout our banter. I miss the way you kissed me silly into the night. And I miss our stupid fights and the way we make up, with silence filling the space, staring and understanding each other as you shyly take my hand and hold it in yours, firm yet gentle._

_You'd ruined all other men for me._

"I apologize for that, Roy. But I had to do it if you want to see your wife and kid again. Riza wouldn't be-"

He hears 'Riza'. Repeat it one more time, Roy beseeches soundlessly. His mouth opens and gasps for the phrase, but he chokes, seeing the viper slither from above. It coils its prickly, stony body around his neck, tight and unforgiving.

Before long, his body is lifted into the air. His head roughly bumps into something, hard and cold, sending an electric jolt down his spine.

"Hey, be careful!" the voice snarls.

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

Then, the world around him wobbles and shakes, flying him to a place far away from the serpent's snare, its menacing hiss retreating. Then he sees the sky, blue with white streaks, and he breathes, a memory replaying.

_13 July 1949. Elio turns six tomorrow. I had asked him earlier this week what he wanted for his birthday and said that he could choose one. Just one. I wanted to teach him about greed and gratitude. He told me he wanted the new Dr. Seuss's book, "Bartholomew and the Oobleck," and I said I would oblige._

"We're almost there, Roy. Just hang in there," the same, constant voice soothes, but her tone spills with concern.

Beside the voice is another, quieter and blanketed with a hopelessness, "Ma'am, he's lost a lot of blood. I don't know if we will be able to do anything for him-"

_Last night, Elio came to me with a frown. I became worried and asked him what happened. He refused to tell me, and I had to wheedle my way, offering to bake him an apple pie. He shook his head. Then I said, key lime pie. He nodded then. Still, he was hesitant, quietly asking if it was okay to eat nothing else but that. I had no other choice but to accept._

Within minutes, his jerky movement comes to an abrupt stop and his lids flutter for a wider vision, though weak and heavy. The white wall is blinding and the open windows do not lessen its glare, but Roy hangs onto the sensation of the cool breeze tousling his hair, Riza's fingers raking through his hair fondly. The wind wheels past his skin as he hears the hasty sound of a fabric ripping.

_Elio said if he could only ask for one present - just one, with his index finger up - then he didn't want the book. I clutched his shoulders and asked him what he wanted. I told him that I would try my best to fulfill his wish._

"I swear I will come after you if I don't see him walking about within a week's time," the woman warns. But there's uncertainty in her tone, a helplessness, as if she knew her own words had been futile.

_It took our son a while to confess what was on his mind. But finally, diffidently, Elio tilted his chin up and looked me in the eyes. With a soft voice, he asked, "Can we visit daddy?"_

Everything is cold by then. The hot, humid air of the village has finally suctioned out every ounce of his body heat, distending its own reservoir, absorbed his every determination and will, leaving none for his life. A simple movement of twisting his head or twitching a finger is now impossible, his entire body no longer his own.

_Hearing his innocent request filled my heart with sorrow and I wailed loudly as I drowned in the emotion, sinking to my knees. Elio, who did not understand my plight, started tearing, wept and sobbed with me for what felt like an eternity. He whimpered and asked if crying was my way of saying 'no'._

Fleetingly, Roy paints a crucifix in his periphery, hung reverently against the plane, a symbol so familiar in a space that is foreign.

But the last flicker of energy abandons him at last.

Then the image blurs. A mist within a fog.

_I cradled Elio against my chest, shushing and lulling the child, stroking his hair in consolation. He eventually fell asleep in my arms, too tired from the day, too spent from the tears. I laid him gently on our bed and joined him in quiet repose, letting the dream of our reunion take over._

He opens his eyes.

Roy finds himself in their rectangular space, constructing its narrow hallway, warm beds and cozy living room in the city he now calls home. For a moment, he is back in their kitchen, his spine upright, his movements solid, and his senses returned.

The Christian cross taunts the corner of his eyes. It is small but all-encompassing, watching and protecting.

Just as he had done when he stepped into her kitchen for the first time, Roy inhales and holds, shuddering at the exhale. He looks at Riza, studying the fine lines of her features, the lithe shape of her body, the gold tresses and the rose of her lips. Then he opens his mouth. But instead of asking her the same question - of the morality of his decision that fateful night - Roy asks, "Did I do alright this time, Riza?"

Wordlessly, Riza smiles. It is warm, loving, as she takes his hand tenderly and weaves it into hers.

What has been skulking in the shadows scatters into dust then, dispersed with the air, and everything is light.

Roy sighs in content.

He is home.

_Until the day we meet again._

_Yours always,_

_Riza_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Two more chapters.


	19. written on the sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: [A Passing Housewife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flourchildwrites/pseuds/A%20Passing%20Housewife), your Trudy is truly amazing. Thank you! _The Little Prince_ belongs to Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and that book destroys me.

**Los Angeles, July 26, 1949**

Today is absolutely peaceful. As Riza tunes to the soft radio broadcast in the comfort of her home, she finds that news of the local and the outside world are scarce. There is no mention of the Soviet Union nor the Berlin Wall this morning. No mention of the signing of the North Atlantic Treaty that happened yesterday. In fact, there is very little fanfare of anything, as if the world has decided that today is a good day to take a break. The weather follows suit. While its temperature is beginning to take on a summer temperament, gradually growing warmer as the sun climbs over the sky, the breeze is gentle and the sunlight pleasant on her skin.

Riza is certain most people are grateful for the quiet and tranquility. But everything about it seems to set her senses on high alert. It is too peaceful; the sky is too blue, the birds are too happy, and the streets lack its typical sirens. Even Rebecca, who will be taking Elio to the county fair within the hour, is tamer than her usual self. She has not poked fun at anyone's expense, kept her loud chatter at bay, and she amiably reads on with the boy beside her.

Then she thinks of Roy, and she wonders if the world is trying to tell her something.

Forcibly, she glides her vision over the document in front of her. The French translation needs to be completed for the UNICEF by six o'clock tomorrow evening, and she is nowhere near completion. The only sentence she has interpreted thus far is at the top of the thirty-page handbook: "Children are the present and the future of the world" or, in French, " _Les enfants sont le présent et l'avenir du monde_ ". Slowly, she makes her journey across each word, rolling the tip of her pen beneath the black texts, and pushes all other considerations aside.

Not fifteen minutes have passed since Riza has immersed herself in the pages. Elio comes bounding and skipping from his bedroom, a different book in his hand. Taking the seat beside her, he says, "Mommy, I want orange juice."

"I'll go get your juice," Rebecca replies, volunteering herself for the kitchen. She returns with a glass in her hand, placing it in front of the child. "Be careful not to spill."

"Thanks, Auntie Becca," Elio says, wrapping both hands around the cup, bringing the rim to his lips.

"Thank you," Riza smiles, catching a respite from the daunting task to meet her friend's eyes.

"How's it going with the translation?" asks Rebecca, pointing to the strewn papers in front of Riza.

"Slow but steady," she says, "but I'll get it done by tonight."

"Are you having a good time?"

Riza twirls the pen between her fingers, nodding. "I suppose you can say that. I've always wanted to help children in need, especially in countries devastated by war."

"Good. Because you look happy," says Rebecca. Before long then the sincerity of her smile turns mischievous. "Even when you've become too busy for me nowadays."

Riza chuckles, tapping the documents with her pen. "You can thank Roy and Izumi for taking me away from you."

"Well they can go fuck themselves," Rebecca jests, laughing obnoxiously before quickly covering her mouth in horror as her sight ventures to the child sitting next to her. She mouths her apology to Riza and clears her throat. When the boy lifts not an inch of his gaze from his book, Rebecca pretend-wipes her forehead, exhaling in relief. "This is the one time I'm so happy your kid's a bookworm. He tunes out everything else when he reads."

"Just like his father," Riza says, pursing her lips lopsidedly.

"Is that a bad thing?" Rebecca asks, curious.

"No." But when Rebecca raises a brow with suspicion, Riza continues, "But everytime I look at him, I feel like I'm letting him down."

"I know Elio adores his father, but no one can replace a mother," Rebecca says.

Shaking her head, Riza amends, "No, it's not that. I feel like I'm letting him down if anything were to happen to Roy. It's been eight months, Becca, and I haven't heard any news."

Rebecca takes her hand, wrapping it around hers. "Oh Riz, you can't think like that."

"I should prepare him for the worst."

At this, Rebecca folds her arms below her breasts, scolding her, "Remember what I told you? Take it one day at a time. If you could wait six years for him, you can wait a little bit longer. Besides, no news is  _usually_  good news."

Riza wears a thoughtful expression. The thorns in her belly jab with vigor, and the breath she doesn't know she has been holding finally screams to be released. But her friend waves her off, as if telling her that the over-deliberation is not worth her time, that her concern is purportless. Instead of entertaining a further discussion, Rebecca turns to Elio with a wide grin, changing the subject, "Ready for school next month, my darling?"

Looking up from his book, Elio says, "Yes. Mommy and I went shopping yesterday for the mat-reals."

"Materials," Rebecca corrects him.

"Ma-te-rials," Elio repeats, echoing Rebecca's British accent with a cheeky attitude. Riza only chuckles when Rebecca stares at the boy with bewilderment, a look that tells the room she takes offense at the boy's impersonation. "I told mommy she can take me to school on the first day and meet my teacher. And then I want dad to take me the second day so he can meet my teacher, too."

Rebecca shoots Riza a knowing glance. "Auntie Becca can also take you to school, Elio."

"Okay Auntie Becca," Elio says casually, "you can take me to school on the third day."

Hearing no response from Riza, Rebecca casts her answer - a considerate answer that protects the boy from the reality of his father's prospects. "How about Auntie Becca take you to school on the second day and then your father can take you third. Give him an extra day just in case he's not back by then."

Breathlessly, Elio laughs, as if he has just heard the funniest joke. "You're silly, Auntie Becca! Of course daddy will be back by then. Right, mommy?"

For the past year, Riza has blurted a variation of optimism for her son. On her best days, she would tell the child with a reassuring tone, nodding and smiling, that his father would be back soon. But everytime Elio hits her with the same question, a layer of her perseverance is peeled, until finally the core is revealed and it becomes impossible for her to produce another fabrication.

Today is the day. Her throat is swollen shut and her tongue trips over the words, "Mummy... doesn't know... when dad will be back, Elio..." she admits, flitting her gaze to the boy with hesitancy.

Elio stares back, and his wrinkled brows seem to age him by at least three years. She gives her son an uncertain of a smile, and she realizes that this is the most truthful she has been with him for the last eight months. Glancing at Rebecca, Riza expects her friend to chime in, distract the child with a cheerful sentiment or negate her statement. But even Rebecca is speechless.

"I'm tired," Elio sighs. His body sags, as if her honest answer has dropped a substantial weight upon his little shoulders, flopping him down against the sofa. She supposes his weariness is justified. He shoves his book towards Riza and asks lazily, "Mommy, can you read the rest of the book for me?"

Without a word, Riza piles the scattered documents into a neat stack, jamming them into the leather briefcase on the floor. Sliding the book over -  _The Little Prince_ , she inhales deeply, staring at the page in hard concentration like she has only seen it for the first time. Elio points to a passage, and Riza reads, softly at first, " _'Good-bye,' he said to the flower. But she did not answer him. 'Good-bye,' he repeated. The flower coughed. But not because she had a cold._

' _I've been silly,' she told him-"_

"Wait. I want you to read it like how daddy reads it," Elio instructs innocently. "He makes a funny voice for the rose. High like this." The boy mimics his father's shrill.

Nodding, Riza pours an animated voice to match the red flower in his book, " _'I've been silly,' she told him at last. 'I ask your forgiveness. Try to be happy.'_

_He was surprised that there were no reproaches. He stood there, quite bewildered, holding the glass bell in midair. He failed to understand this calm sweetness._

' _Of course I love you,' the flower told him. 'It was my fault you never knew. It doesn't matter. But you were just as silly as I was. Try to be happy… Put that glass thing down. I don't want it anymore.'"_

Riza pauses. Some time has passed since she last read the book. Roy has been the diligent one who always insists on reading with Elio each night before bed. "Elio, do you understand this story?"

Elio steals a glance up at her, thinking with a finger on his lips. "Umm I think so."

The story reminds her of Roy. "Is it not too sad for you?"

"No."

Taking another deep breath, Riza turns the page. She wraps her arm around his little shoulder, squeezing a gentle grip. In turn, Elio nuzzles his head against her side, hugging her torso with his eyes closed, just as he always does to Roy when she sees the two read a bedtime story together.

"' _But the wind…'_ " Riza continues, " _'My cold isn't that bad… The night air will do me good. I'm a flower.'_

' _But the animals…'_

' _Don't hang around like this; it's irritating. You made up your mind to leave. Now go.'_ "

As her eyes gleans down the page, she becomes mute. Underlining the next phrase, she thumbs to the following sentence and then the next. Riza reads to herself, her objective floating into space, her heart shriveling with a pestering fear. Her head drowns with thoughts of Roy, and she murmurs what's in front of her, " _For she didn't want him to see her crying. She was such a proud flower..."_

"Mom, you skipped a whole sentence!" Elio barks, jolting her awake. "You didn't read the part about the caterpillars!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Elio," Riza croaks, pressing a finger to her temple.

"Daddy reads better than you," Elio says plainly. "And he doesn't ask so many questions when he reads it either."

Riza runs her fingers through her son's messy hair, as if the gesture would appease him. Then she tilts her chin up to find Rebecca staring at her intently, as though her friend has seen a ghost in place of her face. Riza realizes then that her breathing is now shallow with grief, and the tears that tickle the back of her head have glazed themselves over her eyes.

Blanketing Riza's hand, her caress warm and comforting, Rebecca soothes, "Everything will be okay, Riza. Remember. No news is good news."

During the last month before his departure, their conversation had taken a very realistic approach; it was truthful and grim, with less hopefulness and little assurance. As the ominous week loomed around the corner, the air had turned downright sinister and sunk its teeth into their space. All Riza could do was cling onto her husband each night as if it was his last. Even Elio had noticed it, and the boy would wedge himself between his mother and father every chance he got.

Finally the day came.

With a tender embrace that seemed to last a lifetime and a full, desperate kiss on her lips, Roy told her how much he loved her. Though she had stood tall and mighty, tucking her emotions for when nighttime came in the privacy of her own room, Roy had seen past the barrier. Just like he always had. Against the cold of her cheek he whispered, a steadfast voice that would endure through his absence, "I'll see you soon, Riza."

Then Roy had bent down to Elio's height, giving the boy a firm hug and a reminder, "Take care of your mother for me." He kissed his son, who mumbled his promise softly, and murmured something long and winded into the child's ear as he poked a playful finger into his tiny chest. Roy's curious gesture had curled a big smile on Elio's face then.

She has always mused about that day, reminding herself now and again to ask her inquiry when he returns. But his soon can't come soon enough. Too many months have passed.

"Elio? What did dad say to you before he left?"

"I dunno," the boy answers, confused, "Daddy said a lot of things."

"The one he whispered to you," Riza clarifies.

His expression brightens, as if remembering. With confidence, Elio says, "Daddy said he can't wait to come back so he can read with me again."

Shuddering, Riza asks, "He said that?"

Elio nods. "Yes. And he also said I should read this book with you when I get lonely." He hums to himself, as if deciding whether to say something more. "I like dad a lot. He says funny things in a weird lang-age."

Abruptly, Riza grasps Elio's prized possession. She fans through the book until it reaches the end. Then she flicks each page to take her to the beginning. And there it is, a short note in Roy's scratchy handwriting under the name Elio Mustang, his name now in truth. " _Riza, when you read this book to Elio, make sure to come up with a deep voice for the fox and a high-pitched sound for the rose. He likes that. Before you tuck him goodnight, tickle him and say, 'Tu es mon petit prince' - You are my little prince. I've taught him a little French because it reminds me of you. I intend to teach him some more when I'm back._ "

As she finishes reading, dark clouds roll in, drifting through the sky and stamping their grey presence in the living room. When Riza looks out the window, the sun is no soon covered with ashen wisps, darkening the world all around. She hears no rumbling thunder in the distance but sees the bright streak of lightning separating the heaven and the earth.

The apartment trembles with the first rainfall that comes down from the sky. Droplets pepper the glass pane on her sliding door, and they quickly mutate into a deluge. Rebecca and Elio whip their heads toward the window as if they had just witnessed a miracle. Riza supposes it is a miracle. A downpour rarely, if ever, visits during the summer months, leaving the soil dry and cracked.

Rushing to the open window, Rebecca lifts the panel up and in, closing it with a click. It dampens the sound of rain, and for a second, Riza feels the need to untether the latch, let the noise fill the room. Elio, who has run beside Rebecca in all his awe and amazement, shouts, "Mommy, it's raining! Can I go outside?"

Rebecca interrupts, "No, Elio. You're going to get wet and dirty. And if it continues to rain, we may need to reschedule our trip today."

But Elio dismisses Rebecca as he presses his cheek hard against the glass, seeing hot vapor with every breath, as if the action will take him an inch closer outside. Each bead frames the view of her son, all goofy and comical, and Riza laughs. There is something about Elio's dark hair and the rain. It shapes a memory from long ago, bringing it to the surface, of that first night in Lyon where everything around her had felt unstable and a simple draw of his arms had made everything right.

"Elio? Do you want to go outside with mummy?"

Rebecca gapes at her friend as if she was crazy.

"Let's gooo!" the boy cheers, raising his arms up.

They rush to the foyer. Down the stairs and out the door.

Riza lets the precipitation soak her bright dress, turning the sunflower shade into olive green. Passersby stare with judgmental countenance. But in that moment, she cares little for the incredulity that trails her and her son as she lifts the hem of her skirt and bounces over a puddle of water, stepping over it with brisk feet. She feels like a child again, as if she was Elio's age, teeming with only fun and play, releasing laughter without holding anything back.

Her son's trouser is muddy and drenched, a track of dirt dotting the bare portion of his legs. But as she watches his little face, seeing a radiance that cuts through the gloominess of the sky, she hurries towards him. Raking her fingers through his wet hair, taming it, she kisses his forehead and his jutting nose and his plump cheeks, a gesture which crinkles his features into disgust. "Mommy, what are you doing?"

With her hands steady on his shoulders, Riza smiles, "Mummy has a good feeling that everything will be alright, Elio."

In an instant Elio grins, his eyes lighting up. His short fingers comb through Riza's dripping locks, twirling a playful knot around them. Then his fanned out palms tread her cheeks, where raindrops and tears commune into hope, knowing that somewhere out there,  _he_  is giving it his best to return home.

* * *

 

**2 Hours Outside of Moscow, Soviet Union**

The nave of the cathedral is filled with two rows of hospital cots and the uproar of the sick and injured. There are only three patients - the local villagers, Maes thinks. But their cry of agony wrenches his stomach with dread, a contrast to what one seeks inside a holy space. One young nurse ambles through her rounds flawlessly, salves and towels in her hands, attending to each one with the tolerance of a saint. One doctor saunters a linear course as one man asks about his stomach, another moans about his twisted foot, and a mother of a toddler cries on the bed beside the afflicted man, her cheeks stained red with worry.

Running his eyes from one wall to the next, Maes finds the makeshift hospital worrisome. Small medical instruments - thermometers, otoscopes, stethoscopes - are laid out on the stripped down altar. Gauze pads and bandages are stocked in a hefty purse beside them, a complete Eucharistic set for the ones huddled on their beds. He can only imagine how things must be stored and cleaned inside the sacristy, the temporary operating room where Roy's life hangs in surrender at the apt hands of the doctors. Apt enough to save him, Maes prays.

"Nurse?" Maes halts the woman with a tap to her shoulder. The nurse turns around. "Is there another hospital nearby that has uh… a  _real_  operating theater?" he asks, hoping some reluctance would lessen the distrust in his tone.

"Rest assured, sir. The doctors and staff you see here used to practice in Moscow's best hospitals. Just because we're in a village, it doesn't mean our methods aren't comparable to the big cities," she says with an easy smile.

He strains to understand behind her heavy accent, but the sincerity of her voice provides a tinge of relief. As he looks around, however, once again finding things where they shouldn't be, he snarls, "Then shouldn't those things be kept somewhere more sanitary?"

"The cathedral is only temporary until the hospital is complete. Construction is slow because it's a small village." Before Maes can respond, she leaves swiftly to attend to a howling patient, her quick steps indicating the urgency.

"Right..." he sighs in frustration, throwing himself against the pew, defeated.

"Hughes."

Maes flinches before twirling to the voice. He springs up in a heartbeat. Promptly, his anticipating gaze lands on the plump woman, traversing to the small puddle of bright red in the center of her shirt. Roy's blood. His mouth gapes in horror. "Shit. How is he doing, Trudy?"

"The doctor's still working on him. When did you get here?" Trudy asks curtly, slicing through Maes's discernible fear with a pressing tone.

"Fifteen minutes ago. I received your telegram yesterday and took the earliest flight out," he replies dully, his eyes taunted by the same spot on her shirt. Squinting, he probes, "Did that  _son of a bitch_  show up?"

In Trudy's palm is a matchbox, which looks precisely like any other of its kind. But once slid open, beneath the sticks of matches, is a camera with proof of Charles' indisputable activities. This gadget is also pin-pricked with brown dots -  _dried blood_  - and Maes's fumbling brain continuously jogs in circles as to what took place at the meeting ground. Trudy says quietly, "Roy followed my tip and got what we need. Will you take this back to London? I'll stay with him until he wakes."

Right away Maes raises his hand, waving profusely. "No. I'll stay here with him. You can go back."

"I'm his superior for this assignment," Trudy says firmly. "I should be here."

But Maes stares at her, begging, " _Please_ , Trudy." He refuses to be anywhere else but here.

The English woman becomes quiet, but her feet are affixed to the ground, unmoving, uncooperative. Maes contemplates sinking to his knees if that's what it takes to defy her insistence. Finally, she speaks, "Alright, I'll see you in a few days." She halts. "And Maes?"

Maes finds her expression, sharp all around, as if scolding him. "Don't go feeling guilty while you're here. You didn't put him in this position. Remember that."

"I know, Trudy," he nods with deference. "Roy reminded me of that enough before he left. The least I could do is to honor him that request."

Slipping the matchbox into her pocket, Trudy departs through the hulking double doors without another word spoken. Out to the narthex where the patients' loved ones linger, and into the placid village. Maes tails her with inattentiveness, seeing a daughter or a mother whose fingers coil into a praying hand behind the entrance. It isn't long before he discovers that his are twisted in the same fashion, almost instinctively.

"Sir?" The doctor unravels his mask and head scrub, and there's a look in his eyes that unsettles Maes, turning his fingers to ice despite the relentless heat.

Quickly, Maes approaches the man in theater blue. "How is he, doctor?"

Emotionless, the doctor says, "We took out the bullet and cleaned his wounds. But he lost quite a lot of blood. The bruise on his face is nothing to worry about."

"Will he fully recover?"

The doctor wields a temporary muteness then darts his eyes to the side, as if deciding whether to lie or to tell the truth. But he finally responds with an answer so vague and too tactful for his own good it only boils Maes's already rising blood pressure. "In plain English, doctor," Maes retorts. Then he realizes that the rudeness of his tone may not prod the truth out of the doctor. He tries again, " _Please_."

As though this kind of obstinacy happens more often than not, the doctor's gaze automatically flits upward. He points his finger to the enormous crucifix, the one watching over the cathedral. "His vitals are stable, for now. But at this moment I would request that you ask for some help from Him."

The fear and panic in his belly harden into crystal, and for once, he loses control over his limbs. Clenching a stony fist, Maes punches the pillar behind him. The vibration sends the nave quivering, as if warning its parishioners of an impending wrath. "Damnit Roy!"

"Sir, please calm down," a nurse approaches, the same one that has been making her rounds. She rests a pacifying hand on his forearm, her soft gaze pleading with her.

"Sorry. I'll be fine," Maes scoffs, rubbing a sweaty palm along his dark hair, combing the frustration. When the doctor stares at him in doubtful reluctance, Maes interrupts, his stiff tone belying the overwhelming fear, "Can I see him?"

The doctor seems to consider his request. He finally sighs, acquiescing, "Ten minutes." Curling an index finger to the nearest nurse, he sticks out his thumb in the direction of the sacristy. "Nurse, can you take this man there? Remind him when his ten minutes is up."

The nurse gestures to Maes to follow. While he has demanded to see Roy, a part of him rejects the idea altogether. He is afraid of what he will see, terrified completely by what he has to relay to Riza. He curses under his breath and drags himself across the floor, up the steps and towards the unmarked door, his pulse beating loudly on his neck.

Maes pulls in a hopeful air as he enters the room.

He pays careful attention to Roy's shallow intake of breath. The way his friend's chest rises and sinks seems encouraging, steady though delicate. The scarlet hue around his torso is visible over the thick bandage and the deep blue blot on his face looks more frightening than the prognosis. In silent observance, Maes finds himself following the doctor's order. He prays. Before he realizes, he is already halfway through the Lord's prayer.

Reverently, he takes a seat on the stool beside the cot. He says, "I give you one day to wake up. Wait, no. I give you half a day or I'm going to chuck these pictures on your face."

Plucking a set of photographs from his pocket, Maes fans them out in between his fingers. "This is Elicia. I can't wait to introduce you to her. Isn't she the cutest?" Occasionally, he would linger his gaze on a happy picture of his daughter before stealing a glance at Roy. "And my lovely Gracia is holding her. My wife is still the most beautiful woman in the entire planet, even when she's lost so much sleep."

Swiftly, he reaches into his left pocket this time, taking out another set. "And these photos were from the time we visited Riza and Elio. See, Roy? Riza's holding Elicia here. You can tell from the look in her eyes that she wants another baby. She couldn't stop smiling! Elio liked her, too. I'm sure he wouldn't mind a brother or a sister." He carefully waits for a twitch or a fidget, as if his detailed narration and the photographs in his hands would resuscitate those small movements.

Maes says quietly, "Thank you, Roy." Once he has professed his gratitude, his eyes swell with tears and his cheeks smeared with the unbidden lament. His veil of optimism finally wears thin, and for the first time in a long time, he thinks of nothing else but the pale face of death. His heart mourns for Roy's wounded state, his mind for the man's unpredictable future. Every so often, he would renounce all control and let himself drown in the image of a wife who will never see her husband again, in the image of a son who will sob for his father.

"Sir? Your ten minutes is up. Please step out of the room," a voice interjects his preoccupation.

Maes turns around to find a young nurse, pushing a cart of medical equipments into the room. Insistent, she beseeches again with a firmer tone, "Please step out, sir. I need to check his vitals."

He pays his last respect to the man before him, genuflecting as he would a king. Roy has saved his family after all. Tucking the photo of Elio, Riza, and Elicia underneath Roy's limp hand, Maes lifts his head up and removes his glasses. He groans to the ceiling, "It's a terrible day for rain."

The nurse looks at him, confused. "It's not raining, sir."

"It might as well be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: One more chapter :')


	20. atlas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: [LadyAureliana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAureliana), [A Passing Housewife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flourchildwrites/pseuds/A%20Passing%20Housewife) (flourchildwrites), [fullmetalscullyy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullmetalscully), and [waddiwasiwitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waddiwasiwitch), I am forever grateful :)

**Atlas**  (/ˈætləs/; Greek: Ἄτλας, Átlas): In Greek mythology, a Titan condemned to hold up the celestial heavens for eternity.

* * *

 

**Los Angeles, August 14, 1949**

By mid-August the sun is already out and about at five-thirty in the morning, prying over the rocky San Gabriel mountains and into the flourishing streets. Its light is warm and bright with the promise of constancy, cuddling the tall buildings and the ground-level storefronts before greeting her with a kiss on each cheek, embracing the rest of her face and body.

Within minutes, Riza Mustang will arrive at the doorstep of Bluebird Diner with her son, the boy's clutching fingers unsteady and listless from slumber. His feet drag heavy underneath his little body, scratching across the pavement. Only when a child of similar age passes by does Elio jolt himself awake, envious glare trailing the lollipop in their hand.

Tomorrow, Elio will be attending kindergarten, a new routine that excites the child and also pulls his brows into a tense line more times than Riza could count. Since last week he has been chirping non-stop about the friends he's going to make, the various subjects he's going to learn, and the hundreds and hundreds of books he will be reading. But he has also been wary about the prospect of not having her around. Or his Auntie Rebecca. Or his Grandma Chris.

But the distraction is a welcome change. The child has simply been too busy thinking of his important first day than to fret about anything else. His eyes become brighter with every sigh and cheer, and his rucksack now stashes a bag of candy. For his new friends, he says. Riza can only chuckle at his thoughtfulness. The adventures of Elio Mustang are just beginning, and soon, he will no longer inquire after his absent father.

Oddly enough, Riza imagines herself finally breathing when that moment comes, unfettered by topics of Roy and whether or not he will return in time to take their son to school. She'd be able to go about her day as though nothing is missing, conceal the worry for her husband under the pretense of readying her son for the next stage of his life.

" _West Germany federal election results are in! Come get your newspaper!_ "

Riza approaches the newspaper boy and places a quarter on his palm, "Here you go."

"Thank you, ma'am," he nods appreciatively. Not long after, he resumes his daily sales pitch, yelling to the street with unfaltering stamina, " _Moscow's Berlin Blockade negotiation insights here! Get your newspaper!_ "

She fiddles with the set of keys when Elio turns his back to her and shouts, "Good morning, Miss Izumi!" The boy waves both hands with enthusiasm.

"Good morning, Elio!"

In the week following Roy's departure, Izumi confided a plan - something she and Sig pieced and puzzled together every night for months. The couple aims to move to the southern part of the state by the end of the year, dumping most of their hard-earned savings in a cattle ranch, taking the roles of both butcher and farmer in the agricultural county of San Diego.

It is admirable, Riza thinks, that the former combat instructor constantly looks ahead, sailing past the bygones with a confident wheel at the helm. It teaches Riza a thing or two about the past. That it is merely a stepping stone towards  _a_  future, one that's waiting to be moulded and shaped by a pair of hands woven by experience.

"Good morning, Izumi," Riza greets with a smile, "how are you this morning?"

"Great! Found a buyer for this shop right here," she says, patting her meat stall in a loving manner as though it is a living, breathing thing. "It looks like our plan to move by year-end is a go. I just need to start packing our things into boxes."

"That's wonderful. Let us know if you need any help packing."

"Don't worry about that, Riza. I married my husband for a reason," she laughs, unabashedly. Riza reciprocates, acknowledging the woman's statement with an impulsive nod. Sig Curtis is a big man, strong with defined lines and knobs along his arms and legs like a professional boxer.

"Alright. But I'm only a door away if you need anything."

"Thank you, Riza."

Entering the diner, Riza inhales the whiff of cold vacancy, mixed with the lingering scent of baked bread and buttery pastries. It is a scent with which she occupies herself for the first twelve hours of her day. Her shop will soon spring up, open to patrons just like any other Sunday. But in the spirit of moving forward, she contemplates an idea, one which she is intent on seeing through, that makes her catch her breath each time she thinks about it.

With Elio at school five days out of the week, Riza muses about the easy decision of taking a desk at the UNICEF building across the street. As head translator, she would be able to dedicate a part of her time for a cause close to her heart. Rebecca had clapped her back and remarked that it would do her good, and so would Roy, if he had been there when the acceptance was made.

Closing the diner door behind her, she moves to the register and tucks her purse and newspaper inside a small locker. Elio perches himself on the turquoise bench. The boy takes out, from his canvas bag, a book, and he flicks the cover open, his gaze automatically latching onto the watercolor pages.

"Turn on the light before you read, Elio," Riza reminds him, "you don't want to hurt your eyes." Elio looks up. He doesn't say anything, but he gives her a heedful stare as she flips the switch.

Ever since she discovered Roy's thoughtful notes, Riza has made every effort to read to her son at bedtime. But she seldom finds herself with a book on her lap. Recently, Elio has taken an interest in the story of his father and mother and their younger years. "Did you meet daddy in school?" Elio had asked. "How did you meet him?" From that night onward, Riza has been traipsing through their journey in London and France, exaggerating the adventure while tamping down the impropriety for his innocent ears.

Riza found that narrating their tale flooded her with relief more than heartache. And reliving these instances brought out a new level of appreciation for her husband, and a realization that didn't quite strike her the first time around. That, perhaps there is such a thing as destiny… or love at first sight.

When Elio asked about her motherland - the beautiful, unceasingly foggy England - and if she would ever take him there, Riza had nodded. It has been too long. Now, she is all about turning back the years, embracing the life she has left behind like an old friend. She would even consider visiting her father, she surmises, bury her hatred and dig up forgiveness.

With her concentration back to tinkering with the soda fountain, Riza twists the spout and tests the stream. She then wipes down the bar surface, losing a few seconds to scrape a congealed chocolate stain on the otherwise gleaming countertop.

In a few minutes, Winry will show up at the door, even after Riza has told her many times to stay at home and rest her swollen feet from the burden of carrying her protruding belly. But she never listens. The woman's obstinacy is as good as her own.

The space is silent and loud at the same time. The clangs and clinks of table wares in her hands accompany her where she goes. Her own labored breathing fills the emptiness, and the strident clomp of her oxfords clips the tiles as she paces from the front to the back of the house. Right on time, she hears the muted doorbell from within the kitchen.

It must be Winry.

She listens to Elio's brisk feet crossing the floor, and she hurries her work with the pots and pans lying about. Surprisingly, rather than hearing a cordial greeting from the boy, she hears an elated shriek, piercing and elongated. Then muffled laughter follows. Then a sudden cry for her son's name -  _Elio! Elio! -_  that was needlessly repeated and precariously spoken with a strangle. But there's a familiarity about the voice...

Her heart thuds in her ears, and she finds her unwitting fingers clutching the fabric over her chest, as if the action would prevent it from leaping out of her ribcage. That can't be Winry. Is that-

Rushing to the dining room, Riza shoves the kitchen doors with forceful hands as though they were made of bricks. It jerks open, and she finds herself face to face with a man, his dark hair falling over a set of wistful eyes. Her speech escapes her at that moment, and her heart ceases to beat.

In the impossibility, time stops.

But as she inhales, her body inevitably quakes under his full gaze and unwavering smile.

Roy... is here. He's back!

Heat prickles behind her lashes, and in an almost dreamlike state, she hears his wispy voice spill her name, low and incredulous. Frantically, she flies to her husband and gathers the whole of him into her arms.

Roy is nestled so closely against her that she can hear his every breath and every sigh, feel his drumbeat and his warmth, freeing the confines of her heart and washing it with relief. Her vision mists, bubbling, until it turns into a cascade, streaming down her cheeks and into the wrinkle of his dress shirt.

Wrapping a pair of hasty arms, Roy chokes her name into the waves of her hair, again and again. But Riza doesn't tire of hearing it, as if every whisper had infused life, returning the years that were inexorably robbed from her.

"You're back," she croaks, letting herself fall onto him, sinking into his grasp. "You're really back…"

"I'm home, Riza," Roy says fondly. His voice has caught a bearing, reeling her in into the realm of familiarity. Everything about it is as solid and firm as the body she is pressed against. Resting his forehead on hers, he brings his gentle hands to cup her cheek.

Hastily, she curls her fingers in his hair, stroking it with a newfound strength, slow and tender. She touches his face, tracing the corner creases of his lids before moving them to caress the blade of his jaw. Her motion is languid, as if studying each character for the first time, memorizing it against the tip of her skin.

Roy then draws her into him with impatience, pressing her lips against his with a recklessness and a sloppy longing that tell a story all on its own. But she isn't without one herself. As she shuts her eyes, tasting the sweet pulse of his mouth, she discovers that the intimacy carries the ripple of melancholy away and pulls in the tide of joy.

Before long, everything feels as it should be.

Riza feels Elio squirm beside her. She looks down to find the boy's irritable pout. "Mommy, I was hugging daddy but you pushed me aside."

Laughing, she sweeps her son's bangs endearingly. "Sorry, Elio," she says. But she finds it extremely difficult to release Roy from her clutch.

"And you're hurting daddy. He made a face like this-" Elio winces for show, "when you hugged him."

Her gaze drops to the ground, seeing a cane lying in wait. Terrified, she scans his body from top to bottom, searching for signs of injury. In her head, she recollects the telegram she received. All it said was that her husband was coming home. An injury had certainly not been on the forefront of her mind then. "Roy, are you alright?  _What happened_?" Her tone sounds almost accusing, as if she had been lied to by the tiny piece of paper.

Roy simply shakes his head, "I'm fine." But she passes a doubtful glance, and a few seconds of silence speaks louder than words. He relents, "We should sit down."

Directing to the closest bench, Riza slides an arm around his back and limps along with him. She points to the cane and nods at Elio, soundlessly ordering the child to pick up his father's belonging and prop it up against the table. Then she apologizes to Elio, imploring him to read in a quiet corner with a plate of eggs and ham and a glass of apple juice.

Her fingers threaded into his, Riza learns of his predicament - his close brush with death and his dream of her, who stood faithfully by his side until he was pulled back into consciousness. As he recounts his journey, her palms are moist with nervousness. The sensations in her body clash like fire and ice, swirling on the expanse of her skin, burning and cooling until she feels only a numbness.

Never has she been so scared in her entire life.

Without knowing, Riza finds herself grimacing as suspenseful nails dig sharply into her thighs.

"And what did the doctor say?" Riza wheezes, deflated, unsure if she can bear to hear the rest of it.

"It will take some time for me to heal," he murmurs. Then he looks at her with a dejected expression that speeds her heartbeat all over again and whisks a sourness in her stomach. "Unfortunately, the doctor said I am no longer suited for field duty."

When Winry shows up for work that morning, Riza graciously tells her to go home and rest, guarding her emotions behind a smile. "The diner is closed for the day."

That night, with her head on her husband's chest and an arm draped mindfully across his torso, Riza thinks. Hard. Her mind spins with his prognosis, chasing sleep and contentment away. One whole year until he fully recovers. Reluctantly, Roy had then mumbled that an internal organ had been damaged and that he would need to take extra care during sickness.  _An infection can kill him_. Though he did not say it in these exact words.

But Riza knew that he hadn't been worried about that. Rather, she had been fully aware how the air about him turned sorrowful at the mention of retirement.

"You're not sleeping?" his raspy voice breathes life to the room, a kind reminder to her that Roy has indeed returned. He kisses the crown of her head, and she snuggles closer.

"No, but you should go back to sleep. You need plenty of rest."

Her answer prompts him to wrap her tighter, the weight and warmth of his arms reviving a comfort that sedates her rumination. "I haven't been sleeping either," Roy says.

Not wanting to risk hurting him, Riza takes a fistful of his nightshirt and grips it beneath her palm. Even with the whirlwind of an unpredictable future, threaded with a sentiment she can't quite yet describe, the fear of separation is vivid between them. In that moment, she'd gladly suffer the affliction, if it means they would never be apart.

"What are you thinking about?" he says softly. His hand rubs an unceasing motion across her back.

"You. Elio. Us," she murmurs. "And what's going to happen from now on..."

He merely hums, the vibration of his voice undulating against her cheek, calming. Worrying.

"Why aren't  _you_  sleeping?" she asks.

But he simply rests a finger on her chin, tilting her face up towards him so that she can see the sincerity on his expression, his gaze fierce upon her. "I love you," he declares, as if the admission would appease her bundle of nerves.

He remains on her, however, so steady and loving, eradicating the harsh contemplations and filling the space in between with silent relief, if only temporary. Riza carefully wriggles free from his fold and pulls herself up, her lithe frame hovering over his. Touching a gentle hand to his cheek, she leans in and pours lush affection onto his lips, each flavored with the time that was lost. She tracks an slow path to his ear and whispers, "And I love you."

A timid knock on the door and Elio sticks his head in from in between the gap. The moonbeam from the open window hits his tiny face, displaying a set of apprehensive eyes. In it, Riza can see that their son, too, suffers from the anxiety of separation.

She beckons him to come, her hand calling. Without a second wasted, the child takes a long stride in and crawls onto their bed, mutely coiling himself beside his father who quickly draws his little body against his own.

* * *

 

The following day, Elio starts kindergarten. Alongside Riza, Roy stands proudly at the gate, waving an ecstatic hand at his son who returns the gesture. Then he takes him again the next day, the day after, and everyday after that. Under doctor's order, Roy is to refrain from any physical exertion for a minimum of one month. And for the full month, he promises Elio that he would wait under the big oak tree by the schoolyard as the child emerges from the school's double door each afternoon.

A day rarely comes without the thought of security. With an adjunct position opening up at the end of the season - a faculty within the University's chemistry department, Roy has been eagerly waiting by the telephone ever since. When it finally rings, Elio squeals in wordless suspense beside him, as if the child understood what it would mean to get a job. But his son couldn't hold his tongue and screams, "Daddy, did you get the job?!"

In the last week of August, the Hughes family comes to visit. While Gracia and Elicia arrive with a joyous bearing, Maes arrives with news of the successful detonation of the Soviet nuclear bomb. They've achieved a milestone. August 29, 1949. A significant date that forever echoes in his head, tangling him in a skein of nightmares, the red menace stretching and contracting his mind until exhaustion drains his body fully.

But tonight, under the constellation of the warm September sky, all ill thoughts run away from him as fast as the speed of light. Roy sees and thinks of nothing else but the beauty of his wife. On the carousel atop Hollywood Hills, strung with bright, kaleidoscopic lights, her smile is radiant, her laughter rolling with cheerful abandon.

Riza sits atop a white steed befitting a queen, its rein and saddle shaded with pretty pastels, its body adorned with a royal crest. Her hair is loosely spun into a high bun, a lively pair of hazel eyes behind fringes of gold. She wears a knee-length powdery blue dress, a gift from him for her thirty-third birthday.

"A beautiful dress for a beautiful lady," he had said, stealing an adoring kiss on the blush of her cheek. She had replied, "This old woman doesn't need a beautiful dress." But he convinced her with a disarming smile then, setting her cheeks aflame as she posed before a mirror, whirling sheepishly in the finery.

The carnival tune blares among the revelry, and Roy, drowned in all the merriment and a sudden insensibility, climbs a hand on the safety pole of his winged chariot and springs up. He stands upright, carefree and effortless, on the bench of his ride.

"Roy! What are you doing?" Riza stares at him with shock, her lips turning into a scowl. "You could get hurt!"

The wind brews against its course and whips at his face, lifting him up into the air. Roy feels as though he is flying, floating up, up, and up, without a way to go back down. Hanging onto the vertical bar with a firm grasp, Roy laughs, "You can see the entire city from up here!" He proffers his palm to her, an easy smile curving in invitation, "Come on. There's enough room for both of us."

With incredulity about her features, Riza curls a doubtful smile but takes his hand, gripping it with a trust that sends him soaring to the clouds. She leaps a careful step over, her matching blue heels whacking onto the flat surface. When she briefly loses her footing over the hump of the carriage, she squeaks a surprised yelp laced with delight, and Roy deftly swoops an arm around her waist and holds her steady against his chest. He chuckles, "I've got you, Riza. Don't worry."

"This is ridiculous!" she says, "and  _you_  are ridiculous!" And Roy can feel her clutch tightening around his neck, above the collar of his dark suit.

He scoops her closer, unexpectedly, eliciting a gasp out of her mouth. She laughs, and his ears are abundant of her sound. He wants to hear more of it, dwell in it, and desires nothing more than to draw it out of her, over and over. His thumb traces the gold band snug around his finger, and Roy speaks over the whimsical melody crooning in the background, "I'm sorry it's taken me so long to ask you on a date."

She meets his apologetic frown. "You've taken me on plenty of dates, Roy."

"No," Roy amends, maintaining his grip around the pole, vise-like. "Not without fear and worry clouding over us. This is the first time we truly enjoy ourselves."

Riza replies teasingly, "Then it has only taken you seven years. And we're already married with a son."

"Better late than never," he grins, playful.

In his periphery, Roy sees the carnival attendant jogging the rounded stretch, trying to get onto the moving platform without pausing the ride. The man's alarmed expression begs for their imminent descent from the porcelain ride, sitting high above the ground. But Roy chooses to ignore the impending order and stays in place.

Riza seems to notice the man. "We should really get down. It's dangerous."

When Roy says nothing at all, she sets a firm mouth, loosening the coil around his neck to grab at his hand. The ride warbles as it lifts itself off the ground and back down again. "We need to sit down before the attendant reprimands us!" But all he perceives is mirth in her tone.

"One minute. The view is too beautiful to miss." In reckless wonder, Roy lets go of the pole and moves his fingers to caress the nape of her neck. As he holds her, he tracks the brilliant glint of her eyes, following the curious movements and finding himself lost in them.

Endearingly, she laughs, raising an index finger up. "Okay. One minute."

He notices the skyline and the cityscape lingering behind. While they are indeed beautiful, he does not see beyond  _her_ , the mesmerizing vision drifting in and staying put like an iridescent shell washed ashore. She smiles at him, and the pleasant breath of summer sings, carrying him out to a dance with memories, the twist and turn of each moment that always leads him right back to the start.

To her.

"You're not even looking at the city!" Riza laughs again.

Abruptly, the carousel comes to a stop, and all eyes are on them - the strange couple, rising high beneath the shifting sky.

"It looks like they shut down the ride because of us," Riza chuckles, her focus on him. Curling her fingers open, palm up towards the stars, she offers it to him. "Are you ready to leave?"

Roy takes her hand and cradles it in his. For a short time, the clock fast-forwards and a clear picture gives way to tomorrow. A future in which she is there beside him, lifting the heavens above, together, no matter how tumultuous the world may spin.

"Yes," Roy nods, smiling contently. Riza meets his eyes, an unflinching gaze that stretches beyond the here and now. "I'm ready."

 

 

**Fin.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is it, everyone. Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this story. I want to let you know that I'm very thankful for all the comments, kudos, bookmarks, favorites, reblogs, and likes. I read every tag and every word, and they've encouraged me plenty throughout this half-year journey. If you're ever interested, I've got a few WIPs planned, and they're listed on my profile page. Until next time!
> 
> A/N2: I was going to list the research I've done for this historical piece, but I realized I can't fit it all in the author's box. If you're curious, feel free to ask in the comment box or on tumblr. :)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments always motivate me to continue, and I appreciate them a whole lot :)
> 
> P.S. Feel free to also let me know what you think on my [tumblr](http://ruikosakuragi.tumblr.com). DM's, asks, anything you feel like throwing my way.


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